


A January of Jazz and Prowl

by Magnolia_in_black_Velvet



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bondage, Bullying, Family Feels, Fluff, Hangover, Kid Fic, Light BDSM, M/M, Monster Hunters, Smut, Trans Character, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia_in_black_Velvet/pseuds/Magnolia_in_black_Velvet
Summary: Decided to try challenging myself to write daily this month.Unconnected short ficlets
Relationships: Bluestreak & Prowl, Jazz/Prowl, Prowl & Smokescreen
Comments: 92
Kudos: 102





	1. A new beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt list is [this](http://www.narratess.com/writing/new-writing-prompts-every-month/)

Prowl chanced another glance at his image in the mirror, his hands flying up to his bumper almost by themselves. There was a spot, wasn’t there? A stain of energon from their breakfast – Jazz had made the copper-sulfur mix Prowl loved, the one that was sweet-and-sour and green and sticky and left spots that were harder to get rid off than scraplets. 

Or what if it was worse, if it was from yesterday when he ran into his co-worker? Could he really still have stains fro-

Steady, black hands grabbed his frantic ones, holding them in a gentle, yet firm grip.

“It’s okay, sweet”, Jazz said, his thumbs rubbing little circles into the back of his hands. “They love you. They would love you even if you were covered in cosmic rust and coughing your vents out, and they will certainly love you as your beautiful, perfect self.”

Looking up into the earnest face of his lover he wished he had the same confidence. Swallowing he leaned forward, his chevron coming to rest between Jazz’ sensor horns; drawing comfort from the familiar touch. “And what if they don’t?”, he whispered.

His hands spasmed in Jazz’ grip but he made no move to pull them back. Not even as Jazz transferred them both into one hand, the other appearing in the back of his helmet, pulling him just a bit closer. 

“Then”, Jazz said, his words strong and sure for all that his voice was not much louder than Prowl’s. “They can go frag themselves. If they cannot love you because of your frame than they do not _deserve_ to love your spark.” The hand holding his tightened a little, holding him in place when Jazz pulled back just enough to lock optics with him. “I don’t think they will resent you for this. They love you. But if they do? You will always have me, and Optimus, and Ironhide and Ratchet and Soundwave and, frag it, you’ll even have _Starscream_ though I’ll never understand what you see in him. Soundwave is better in holochess anyway!”

A soft – not laughter, but a feeling of lightness bubbled in Prowl at the exasperation in his lover’s voice. Jazz had never understood his relationship based on friendly antagonism with the seeker, but his resentment towards the seeker had decreased a lot in the last cycles, since he’d come out as a mech and his re-framing and Starscream had taken it as much in stride as his other friends.

“See, that’s better. Knew that fragging seeker had to be good for something.” Jazz squeezed his hands again. “They’ve been okay with you telling them that you’re a mech. They won’t change their mind just because you’re now looking like one.”

No, they wouldn’t; neither his creator nor his siblings were given to hypocrisy.

Feeling something settle in his spark Prowl pulled back, then looked at his lover. “Stay with me?”

“Always.” Jazz squeezed both his hands again, then let one go so he could face the door.

Taking a last deep invent to steady himself Prowl walked forward, mostly ready to face his family.

When he walked into the other room all three of them were looking at him.

His creator had settled on the couch Jazz hadn’t been willing to leave behind when they’d moved in together, the one with the soft upholstery and the ugly pattern they’d hidden under mountains of blankets. Smokescreen sat beside him, in Prowl’s armchair, a datapad with the news still in his hands. Bluestreak stood by the small side table, the one they kept the holo-chess board on to avoid accidentally knocking it over.

It was his creator who reacted first, his hand flying to his mouth, but before Prowl could figure out if it was in disgust or just surprise Smokescreen was whistling, the sound more than appreciative, and suddenly Bluestreak was there, his hands flying around his neck that Jazz had to duck out of the way to avoid getting whacked by a doorwing when Bluestreak hugged him tight enough to stall his vents and make his frame creak and it felt so good Prowl wouldn’t tell him to stop for anything in the world.

When Bluestreak pulled back it was to look up at him, his whole face glowing. “You look awesome! I mean I know you send us the specs and I know that you said you didn’t want to change the colors too much but I didn’t expect you to look so stunning! Sunstreaker is going to want you to model for him! And really, I didn’t think you would still look so much like yourself just like, not  _exactly_ , because you don’t look like a femme anymore and is that okay when I say that? Because Sideswipe helped me find things to read about what you can say and not say to trans ‘tronians and I know that deadnaming is a no-go and I know I have to use  _he_ now but that’s not a problem, I’ve done that for cycles now but I’m not sure if -”

Hugging his brother close again, his spark lighter at his younger brother’s usual endless stream of words, he allowed himself a shy little smile. “I don’t mind”, he said. “I know I had a femme frame before, and I don’t see a reason to forget that.” Some did. There were a few mechs and femmes and bots in the chat group Jazz had helped him find after he’d told him that hadn’t felt like themselves until they’d deleted every picture of their old frame, every sign they’d ever been anyone but who they were now.

Prowl didn’t feel the need, for all that he was happy that it had helped them. He might not have felt ...  _right_ in that frame but he’d never been entirely miserable in it either. To him, destroying any memory of this time in his life was too much like destroying a part of himself that, in happiness as in sadness, was still him. It was part of the reason he’d kept his name, just changed the modifiers that had made it a femme’s name.

“Oh good.” Bluestreak looked up, his optics full of relief and earnestness the way Prowl knew his brother. “I mean I’m sure you would say something but-”

“But he doesn’t want you to think we don’t care”, Smokescreen cut his brother off. When Prowl looked up he found him roll his optics in fond exasperation. “He told us all about the things we’re allowed to say and _not_ say during the whole ride over.” A grin flashed over his face plates and he reached around Bluestreak, patted Prowl’s shoulder. “I think one of them was _Don’t ask whether they are sure_.” He snorted, amusement making his optics sparkle. “As if I needed to _ask_. Looks good on you, your new height. No more tiny litlle femme.”

From anyone else Prowl might have misunderstood the sentiment, but he knew his brother. More than that, he saw the love shining in his optics even brighter than any amusement,

Leaning into his brother’s strong hand he allowed himself to feel relief at not having lost his siblings over becoming himself.

Then they pulled back a little, just enough to allow their creator to step up.

Wary Prowl looked up, into the face he’d known and loved for all his life. Remembered the first reaction Racer had had; remembered that he still didn’t know what his creator  _thought_ .

But when he locked optics with him, Racer was smiling. 

“Bluestreak is right”, he said. “You look beautiful.”

Closing the gap between them he pulled Prowl into his arms and finally,  _finally_ , he felt his spark roar up again, light and warm and  _loved_ . It made him hold tight onto his creator, his frame shaking as he bled fear and relief filled in the weight of worry, and he offlined his optics, bowing low and hiding his helmet against his creator’s shoulder like he’d done as a sparkling. 

“You don’t”, he choked, felt his vocalizer stall, static crackling between them until he reset it. Tightening the grip he had on his creator’s frame he tried again, voice still overlaid with static: “You don’t mind? You don’t think I’m selfish or – or ungrateful that I don’t want the frame you’ve given me?” Because that was what it felt like, no matter how good the new frame felt around his spark – disrespecting his creator who had carried him in his own frame, had given him his frame and raised him and-

“No.” The arms around his frame tightened. “I don’t think you disrespect me. I think you had a beautiful femme frame, and now you have a mech frame that is even more beautiful for how comfortable you are in it.” Racer pulled back a little, so he could sneak a hand between them and lay it against Prowl’s cheek, gently urging him to look up.

“I love you, my creation, my _mech_ ”, Racer said, and Prowl was so warm, so light, in his creator’s arms, with Smokescreen’s hand still awkwardly petting his doorwings and Bluestreak on his other side, beaming.

And Jazz, catching his optics over Racer’s shoulder and grinning at least as wide as his brother. His left hand was held in a way that seemed familiar, and when he moved it Prowl recognized one of the signs a musician might use with a band.

_Start anew_ . 


	2. Hung over

It took Jazz exactly 0.002 nanokliks after onlining his optics to decide that the light was  _way_ to bright  and to offline them again .

_Primus_ , he would _kill_ his twin this time. Jazz was working at night, he couldn’t afford not to properly recharge just because  _someone_ had forgotten to darken the windows again.  _Especially_ when his helm already hurt.  _Primus_ , his gig had to have been  _good_ if he’d gotten this much engex.

Turning over so the sun wasn’t shining directly into his face he grumbled: “Better hope I’ll  _never_ find you, Rico, or I’m going to –  _Aaahh!_ ”

Tumbling over the edge and finding himself on the floor hadn’t been part of the plan.  _Ouch!_ Rubbing his smarting side Jazz managed to get in to a half-sitting position – the best he could manage with his tank protesting the sudden change of position  _vehemently_ \- and onlined his optics to search for his fragging twin--

_This wasn’t their apartment._

_Unicron’s rusted spike_ , this  didn’t even look like the apartment of some patron who he’d gotten home and swapped cables with. With the stained floor, the uncomfortable too small berth and the  tiny , barred window high up the unpainted walls it looked a lot more like a--

“Welcome to Praxus Minor III Town Jail”, a stern voice said, though there was a hint of benevolent amusement woven through it that took a lot of the threat out of the words.

Because,  _Jail?_ Jazz may  have never been an envoy of Primus, but he’ d never gotten into so much trouble with the law that he’d had to spend a night in a prison.  A little s peeding and illegal busking only ever gets you a fine, after all.

With the way his helm still  felt like there  was a whole overcharged crowd dancing within it  took him a while to remember ...  _Ricochet_ . Gambling. Polyhex’ mafia sending their enforcers because  _of course_ Ricochet had to loan creds from them  and then lose them .

And then ... getting separated. Trying to make it to Praxus to meet up again. The night spend in that little collection of houses that barely warranted an inn, with the inn keeper offering him as much energon –  _high grade_ – as he wanted for an evening of play and singing. Then – nothing.

Frag. What had he done to end in prison?

Trying to coax a charming smile on his lips he turned around. “Sorry, officer. It seems I don’t exactly remember what got me here--”

H is jaw  went slack. In front of him stood the most attractive mech he’d ever seen.

Standard Praxian enforcer frame –  _Praxus Minor III,_ ye ah , one of those little villages surrounding Praxus city -, with the usual black and white plating and doorwings, but somehow he made them look –  _classic_ . Maybe it was the way he stood, all straight and stern  with his doorwings raised high , or the commanding field surrounding him. Or his optics, icy blue, yet with an amused twinkle that allowed Jazz to breathe just a little easier. 

U nder different circumstances Jazz would have  so loved to  wake up with this mech.

Jazz closed his mouth again.

At least the officer didn’t look mad, so whatever he’d done to earn his unusual overnight accommodations couldn’t be that bad?

Actually ... Jazz squinted against the light from the other room and the way it stabbed into his eyes. The officer looked more amused than anything else.

“I fear you have just been at the wrong place at the wrong time”, the mech said.

Jazz blinked. “What?”

The mech’s mouth curved into a small smile that made Jazz’s spark stall. “The inn has only two guestrooms, and both were occupied. Since you didn’t indicate that you had different accommodations and Bluestreak didn’t want you to have to sleep on the floor he called me. I’ll admit, the berths here aren’t the softest either, but you haven’t been the first one to use them.”

Jazz blinked, trying to work through that. “So I’m ... not actually in prison?”

“You are, in fact, in prison, but you are not a prisoner.” The officer pointed towards the obvious lack of energy bars in the entrance of the cell which would usually keep a mech trapped, his smile turning a little teasing, and Jazz felt his spark spin a little faster which ... not good when he still felt this nauseous.

The officer apparently noticed his problem because his smile turned gentler.  “Why don’t you use the washracks and then come find me. I have some patches for your headache and low grade  in the front room .”

The mention of washracks made him aware of how sticky his frame was, and the patches sounded awesome.  Carefully nodding he smiled at the officer, before remembering his manners. “Thank you. I’m Jazz, from Polyhex.”

The officer tilted his helm, his doorwings moving slightly. “Prowl, of Praxus. It is a pleasure to meet you, Jazz.” Nodding to his right he added: “The washrack is behind the left door. Take your time; I’ll see you when you are ready.” Giving another movement of his doorwings he turned and made his way down the hallway.

Staring at his aft Jazz needed a moment to collect himself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you”, he finally whispered, just as the door closed behind Prowl.

For a stint in a prison, this actually didn’t seem that bad.


	3. Back to work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I came from _Back to work_ to _Away from work_ but I'm guessing that's how prompts work ...  
> Warning: NSFW

Jazz was, in Prowl's - admittedly biased – opinion, the most beautiful mech to have ever been sparked. His free spirit, the quick mind he used equally for pranks and missions and to help and cheer up his friends, the way he looked when he listened to music or sang himself ... the graceful way he moved, as if every motion was part of a dance to music only he could hear ... his frame, from his cute sensor horns over his oh so expressive visor down his prominent bumper and the legs that rarely ever stayed still ... Prowl loved it all.

Though even he had to admit that it was a special treat to have Jazz kneeling in front of him, his smiling mouth stretched obscenely wide around his spike, his visor dimmed in enjoyment as he practically worshipped his lover.

A lover who was more than willing to reward him.

Reaching for him Prowl tugged on one of the sensitive horns, scratching lightly at the spots he knew Jazz enjoyed the most. Felt more than heard him hum in reply, sending fire racing through his lines, stoking the arousal simmering in his frame, his fans working faster as they tried to keep the heat down and only barely managing.

"You are wonderful", he praised, his voice darker than usual, and felt the shiver run through his lover's frame as he picked up on the lust in Prowl's voice. Sound had always been what Jazz was the most susceptible to, the one thing that revved him up the most, closely followed by praise. And Prowl had no compunction using both to stoke the lust drenching his lover's field and frame.

Lowering his voice even more he allowed his own arousal to spill into it, making it sultry and filled with such lust that few would recognize it as his anymore. "Absolutely perfect as you kneel for me ..."

Jazz moaned, the vibration traveling through his mouth into Prowl's spike, transforming into a spike of heat that raced through his whole frame, wringing a moan from Prowl's own vocalizer as he forgot himself for a moment, bucking up into Jazz' oh so willing mouth.

Willing and warm and perfect ... and Jazz was moaning again, whimpering, his claws spasming where he held onto Prowl's thighs for balance even while his helm pushed into Prowl's hands, making him aware that he must have said it aloud.

Which really no problem, not when Jazz _was_ perfect like this and there was fire flooding his lines, heating his frame and making his spark spin faster until he could see little lightnings arcing over his frame, dancing, snapping at his sensors. Focusing around his groin and connecting with Jazz.

Prowl knew how that felt - the sharp little pain of impact, stronger on the more sensitive plates of face and derma, almost unbearable on the glossa - unbearably _arousing_ , to most. Certainly to Jazz who was sobbing now, his vents hitching as he tried to cool down, his claws sending little shocks of his own through Prowl where they pricked his sensors. His own charge rising visibly, visor lighting up in uneven intervals as he lost more and more control, his field fluctuating around him, waves of pleasure that collided and meshed with Prowl's own and drove his charge higher and higher until he couldn't help himself anymore, bucking up in Jazz' mouth, his hands holding onto his lover's helm until he felt himself tip over the edge, overload sweeping him under.

When he rebooted again it was to Jazz still kneeling between his legs, visor bright and vents roaring on full, charge crackling over his plating while he whimpered, helm still rubbing against Prowl's hands and his own hands kneading Prowl's thigh cables.

Yet for all his obvious desperation he made no move to bring himself release and how could Prowl not reward such self-control, even if it was a self-imposed dilemma?

Gently he petted over those lovely sensor horns, enjoying the way Jazz pushed into his hands even more, the small sounds of desperation and need escaping his vocalizer.

"That was wonderful, love." He allowed himself a chuckle as Jazz looked up, hopeful. "Yes, you have won. No more work today."

The way Jazz' whole face lighted up reminded him, again, that _yes_ , Jazz was the most beautiful, wonderful mech. Even more amazing when he went down to his knees willingly, just to bring his lover pleasure, all desperate and needy.

Amazing enough that Prowl rarely managed to deny him whatever he wished for.

And Jazz was more than willing to use that for his own goals, especially when it meant getting Prowl away from work he should have left two jour earlier anyway.


	4. Snow Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting the feeling this prompt list wants me to go in different directions and I'm always spoiling it ... Have a warm, gentle, soft, snuggly snow storm.

Fluffy white flakes danced through the afternoon light outside the window, rolling in the air like a group of drunken patrons to one of Jazz' faster songs. With the wind picking up their dance turned swifter and wilder, whirling up and down and around that sight was getting worse and worse. Already he could barely see the houses on the other side of the street, covered as they were in snow. Or, for that matter, the street; with his Praxian coding yearning for the sky Prowl had chosen one of the upper apartments usually reserved for seekers - not that any had dared to protest against their Lord High Protector's Second in Command - and the street was a good way under them.

"It is beautiful, for something so deadly", he said, his hand spread on the cold window pane.

Behind him he heard the low hiss of hydraulics as Prowl turned to him, then the sound of springs releasing as he stood from the couch.

"Not so deadly anymore", he corrected, his voice smooth and thoughtful. "Shockwave and Perceptor have made great progress in reducing the pollution in the atmosphere. If their newest project passes tests precipitation may reach an acidity level safe for Cybertronians within the next five cycles."

"Wow. Never knew I would be grateful to Shockwave of all mechs." Jazz leaned back against his lover, finding a comfortable position against the bumper with the ease of a long relationship. "Think we can go sledding some time soon, then?"

Prowl, ever more interested in scientific projects than Jazz (as long as those weren't projects meant to be used to kill his friends; then he was very interested, too), hummed softly, his arms wrapping around Jazz' waist, chin coming to rest on his shoulder. "It will take some more time, even if our best estimations are correct. Rolling in the snow like that will require an acidity level far lower than what will be safe for a quick walk through rain."

"But once it is safe, will you go sledding with me?"

Prowl turned his head, lipplates touching what he could of the edge of Jazz' lips. "Of course, my love."

Turning his head he found Prowl's mouth with his own, lips sliding over each other, warm and content and gentle as their love, and Jazz could have easily spend the rest of the evening doing nothing else if Prowl hadn’t finally pulled back a little, lips curved into a wry smile.

"Since it will take some time yet to go into the snow safely will you come onto the couch with me, share warmth and energon?"

Jazz smiled, remembering life before the war, snuggling under covers with Ricochet and sharing a mug of warmed energon with his brother. "Sweetened with silver? "

Chuckling Prowl pulled away even further, his hand searching for Jazz’ and then raising it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against his joints that had Jazz’ spark fluttering before he promised: "So many silver shavings Ratchet would have our plating if he knew, and carbon for a little acid tang."

And snuggling with his lover under a thick blanket. There was so _no_ reason he would miss out on that. "I may require a lot of snuggling", he warned anyway, playfully, as Prowl pulled him back onto the couch, then took the steaming mug from the table and pressed it into his hands before he settled beside him, pulling the blanket up over them both. "In fact I think I'll require to keep you."

Prowl made a sound, half amusement, half contentment, as he nestled up to him.

"I think you will find that I require to be kept", he said, just as his helm came to rest against Jazz' shoulder, his arm hugging him close.

Smiling he leaned his own helm against his lover's.

"I'm okay with that."


	5. Blue Air, White Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunter!Prowl and Vampire!Jazz go demon hunting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: light description of gore/blood

If there was an entry for _demon castle_ in the lexicon, then the picture of the castle Prowl was currently staring at would be directly next to it. Situated on the ledge of a hill, there was a perpetual cover of dark clouds over it, occasional lightnings painting the whole scene in ghostly twilight. Deep shadows and dead vines clung to the thick walls, the windows were barely more than arrowslits, the whole structure squat; a crouching beast, ready to attack.

Prowl opened his mouth, let the air, dusty and somehow thick enough to chew, crawl over his chemoreceptors. There was a sharp tang to it, like ozone or too much electricity. Together with the unnaturally blue air and the strange vibrations he could pick up with his doorwings he didn't even need to look at his companion to ask for confirmation.

"A demon", he said.

Jazz snorted. "A young one. None of the old ones are so vain that they give up on subtlety in favor of style." The tilt of his head was fast, abrupt; more birdlike than mech. His visor dimmed only to be tinted just the slightest bit red when it brightened again. "Easy prey." His siphon whipped out, licked over his derma.

Prowl failed to suppress a shiver; a vorn of hunting with Jazz wasn't enough to let his frame forget that he, too, was prey for the ancient vampire.

A claw ran over his cheek, too gentle to be anything but a caress. "Don't be afraid." Jazz sounded amused, his lips curved into a teasing smile; together with the reddish tint of his visor it looked almost more demonic than the castle. " _You_ I'd never feast upon that way."

Prowl swallowed, his frame caught between wanting to run, to hide from the predator standing not even an arm length away from him, and taking that last step, closing the distance, sinking into those arms and visor ...

Digging his dentae into his lips until the taste of energon filled his mouth he shook his helm hard, trying to get the misty influence of a vampire's powers out of it, before he glared at his companion.

Who returned it with the innocent look of the wrongly accused. If he didn't know that it would do slag against a vampire of his age and power he would try and strangle him. _Again_.

Jazz might even let him; he always enjoyed Prowl's outbursts.

Shuttering his optics for a moment, safe in the knowledge that Jazz liked playing with him too much to let anything happen to him, he focused on cooling his temper - a temper he hadn't even known existed before he'd been partnered with the vampire - and his mission.

His mission.

Get rid of the demon so the inhabitants of the surrounding villages don't have to fear for their functioning anymore, without Jazz going into a hunting frenzy. Keep Jazz from "getting lost" too much on their way back. Make sure Jazz sleeps in his own damn bed roll instead of sharing his.

It was probably saying something that getting rid of a demon was the easiest part of the whole thing to Prowl.

Finally calm again he unshuttered his optics, unsurprised to find that Jazz had used the chance to move a little closer to him.

He was a Hunter of the Evil Forces. Overly ~~attractive~~ attracted vampires didn't make him nervous, no matter how his doorwings wanted to flutter. "According to what the people in Tetrax said, he is hiring guards. I shouldn't have any trouble getting in if I pretend to be there for a contract. I assume you can make your own way in?"

Despite all his flirting and dancing around there was no denying that Jazz could be absolutely professional if he had to, even if there was an amused little grin curving his lips as he looked back at the castle. "I've seen market places that were harder to get into", he rated the castle. "Try not to take too long; if I get bored I may just take it out alone."

A lightning quick grin, and he was gone, vanishing into thin air.

  
  


Prowl just wished he could move as effortlessly as his companion. Unicron's flame had burned crystals and mechanimals alike to metal dust around te castle, reflecting the sun like snow and covering the ground with a thin layer of silvery white that hid holes deep enough to break Prowl’s ankles and made the path slippery.

Forced to move slower than he wanted - Jazz was more than capable of attacking without him and there was a reason no hunter went ever out alone, even if they were ancient-forces-of-evil-turned-reluctant-ally - he was pleasantly surprised that the gate was still open when he reached the castle. It seemed that whatever else his failings, the young demon at least knew enough to leave his - well-guarded; Prowl was actually a little impressed - gates open during daytime if he wanted to attract new ~~minions~~ guards.

And he definitely wanted to - Prowl had barely set foot into the castle and voiced his wish to serve the local lord and was already hired as a new guard.

Going by what he knew about the situation around here the commander of the guard was probably a little more worried about the villagers rebelling, or maybe an envoy from the Prime, than his "lord".

Prowl might actually have congratulated him on his foresight if not for that envoy being him. However, since he was who he was he only nodded and quietly followed the guard assigned to show him around, a young mech barely in his adult frame going by the name of Bluestreak, while using his specialized sensors to track their distance to the demon.

Compared to how hard getting up the hill had been it was laughingly easy to find the demon.

"... and here is the Great Hall", Bluestreak said and opened a door that had once been richly engraved with blessings, but now sported more than a few scratches.

In fact, Prowl would bet both his doorwings that every blessing had been scratched just enough to make it useless. It would certainly explain why the throne in the most heavily guarded room of the whole castle sported a demon wearing the blue, red and white frame of a seeker of Vos.

Next to him Bluestreak suddenly stopped his nearly constant flood of words. No wonder; whatever the demon had done to convince his servants that it was still a normal mech, it could not survive seeing it with its eerily glowing red optics, holding the lifeless frame of what had probably been some poor villager, mouth and chest smeared with energon and chunks of greyed frame where it had torn too impatiently into its victim.

For a long moment neither of them moved - Bluestreak shocked, the demon surprised, and Prowl, for all his training, actually caught a little off-guard.

Then his hand found the Prime-blessed silver-and-copper staff he always carried on him and he shoved Bluestreak out of the way just as the demon charged him. As fast as he could he moved into the right position to block him with the staff but he already knew that he was too slow, his tactical processor spewing out calculations faster than he could move and all of them coming back with him being too small to hold off the larger and heavier seeker frame the demon had claimed. Desperation made his spark spin faster - he didn't want to deactivate here, over a stupid accident that might happen to a novice - and he tried to force himself to move faster, just a little bit -

There was a mech in front of him.

There was a mech, white and black and even smaller than Prowl and he was forcing the demon away as if it was nothing and Prowl's staff was going directly for his helm -

Wrenching himself away before he could stab Jazz lost him his footing. Going down in a clatter of metal he could still hear the demon's angry growl over his own pained groan, drowning out a hiss as if from a mad turbocat. Just a moment later the growl abruptly stopped, dying in a high wine that Prowl knew all too well even if he couldn't see it: Jazz had let his charming facade slide away, showing off his wicked claws and bright red visor, the fangs that could bite through a shuttleformer's struts and the long siphon that, once completely stretched, couldn't be confused with a glossa anymore.

Pulling himself up into a sitting position, his side and helm still hurting from where he’d fallen onto them, he found the lord pinned to the floor, unable to win against Jazz' overwhelming strength, with the vampire crouched over him and drinking his energon in that unsettling way he had when he let his powers free reign.

Turning his optics away so as to not loose what energon he himself had today he found Bluestreak staring alternately at both him and the scene in the middle of the room, his own optics big and bright like headlights.

Seeing that he had Prowl's attention his lower lip trembled. "Is he going to kill us?"

Assuming that he meant Jazz since the demon was quite obviously no threat anymore Prowl shook his head. "Jazz is a ... friend. He is not going to hurt us."

A voice like smelter fire, or maybe a crystal snake in the dark, sizzled through the room, made the platelets at Prowl's back stand up. "You started without me. I should be angry with you."

Bluestreak looked ready to bolt which, yeah. Not good. It was better if the public didn't know just how untamed the creatures were that the Prime and his Lord High Protector had granted citizenship to. Forcing a stern tone to his voice Prowl turned back to the scene, meeting the optics of the vampire still crouching over the downed demon's frame. "No more than I with you. I could have killed you if I hadn't been able to get the staff away from you."

For a long, long moment the vampire stared back, his visor glowing ominously, before he seemed to suddenly ... loose presence, his visor's color returning to its more usual blueish hue, his frame language charming and amiable again as he wheedled: "But Prooo~owl, I know you would never hurt me." His face took on an almost affronted, hurt expression, and as he left the demon's frame to slink closer it was with the usual infuriatingly exaggerated movements he'd adopted around Prowl.

Staring at him, unimpressed, Prowl checked off the first part of their mission.

Easy part done, both hard parts yet to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now continued in [chapter 7](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073353/chapters/52909438)


	6. Snowball Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kidfic - Prowl was always scary ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quite potentially the most boring prompt-list I could have picked - snow and ice wherever I look. One might almost think its a winter prompt-list ...  
> At least it makes me go do creative things with snow.
> 
> Warning: Bullying

Jazz spit snow out of his intake and propped himself up just enough to shake even more snow out of the crannies in his frame before too much of it could melt down to his protoform, glaring after the aftheads that had pushed him into the snow.

_Again_.

All five of them were a couple of classes above him, and all of them old and big enough that there wasn't much he could do against them.

Which they shamelessly abused. Since he'd started attending Iacon's School of the Arts there hadn't been a decaorn they hadn't turned up and forced him to give them his lunch creds.

What made it worse was that he wasn't actually helpless. Back in Polyhex most younglings were trained at least a little in martial arts, and Jazz had always been very good at Circuit-Su. Yet when he'd turned up to his dance classes after getting roughed up by the _Stunticons_ \- yeah, whoever had come up with that name really didn’t have taste - not even a quartex into the cycle his teacher had warned him that he would lose his place in the class if he missed too many lessons due to getting hurt.

So now he swallowed his anger - he wasn't the only arts student they pressed money from; in fact a lot of the younger students only dared to leave school in groups - and just tried to avoid them.

"Are you hurt?"

Jazz startled – he hadn’t noticed anyone around – and looked up at the unfamiliar voice.

Next to him stood another youngling, maybe a cycle or two older than him, with black and white plating and the characteristic doorwings and chevron of a Praxian. His speech was smooth and precise and his color had the velvety sheen of a very expensive paint job; Jazz didn't even need to see the enamel on his chest to know that he was a student of the private school just down the street.

Yet unlike most of the other rich sparklings who usually sneered at seeing Jazz and most of his schoolmates in their cheaper coloring he seemed worried and maybe even a little angry.

Hoping that the other actually meant what he said – he could really do without someone _else_ laughing at him – Jazz shook his head, then took the hand the other was offering him to get back on his feet.

"Na, they don't usually get that rough when you give them what they want." Jazz tried for cheerful yet couldn't keep the bite out of his voice. "Guess they don't want to get in any actual trouble - if they do enough damage to send someone to the hospital the teachers won't be able to ignore it anymore."

Icy blue optics flashed and there was a spike of anger in the field surrounding him before he pulled it in tight; his doorwings trembled. "They do this often?"

Shrugging - it wasn't as if there was something he could do against them alone, and telling the other wouldn't really hurt him more - Jazz started to flick more snow off his frame. "They don't get me so often but it's not like I'm the only one they're after."

Warm fingers ran over his back and he froze until he realized that it was the other helping him get rid of the snow. "And your teachers aren't helping?"

Jazz snorted. "You never heard of the Stunticons? They are the local quarterball stars. As long as they aren't too rough the teachers are more than happy to look the other way."

"That is not right." The other looked supremely unhappy. "They shouldn't be allowed to get away with injustice just for being good at sports."

"Yeah, it's not like our teachers can actually do something – the fraggers from the Sports Academy have more influence in the school board and if they protest too much they just get fired." It wouldn't be the first time that had happened; rumor had it that the last choir leader got tossed for that very same reason not a stellar cycle before.

"It is still not right." The other was still angry, his face moving in the minuscule ways Jazz knew meant mechs were thinking hard and fast. Behind him his doorwings hadn’t even stopped trembling and his field was still pulled close to his frame.

Whatever conclusion he finally came to had him grab Jazz by the wrist, fingers digging almost painfully hard into his cables, and demand: "Give me your comm code."

"What?" He didn't even know the others name!

Not that that seemed to bother him. "Give me your comm code. This can't go on, and I may need you to help me come up with a proper way to stop them." His optics flashed again and Jazz swallowed when they seemed to drill into him. Maybe he'd been too hasty to assume that telling him wouldn't hurt.

The grip on his wrist tightened even more, one finger now digging really painful against a sensor, and Jazz caught himself sending over his code almost on instinct. He’d had enough of getting roughed up for one day.

"Good. I'll contact you once I have a plan." And with that the rich fragger was gone.

Jazz vented deeply. What had he gotten himself into this time?

  
  


Prowl - who only gave Jazz his name when he explicitly asked for it - contacted him twice more in the next decaorn to ask questions about the Stunticons and how they selected their victims – _interrogate him_ might be a more fitting expression –, and then once more to tell him that he had a plan and where they would meet up to "execute it".

_They_ apparently being Prowl, Jazz and two ... friends? of Prowl; nevermind that Prowl hadn't asked even once whether Jazz wanted to be part of his little plan.

Though he would be lying if he said he wasn't interested; any plan that had even the slightest chance at working against the aftheads had his full attention.

And Prowl's plan was surprisingly good, especially considering who his two _friends_ were: instead of someone big enough to intimidate five quarterball players both were arts students like Jazz. Sunstreaker he knew from his mandatory painting class where he was the teacher's assistant, always grumpy and just _hope_ you never got any water or paint spots on his perfectly polished golden plating. His red twin - and _oh_ did Jazz miss Rico when he heard that; with his brother in Iacon instead of attending the boarding school he was forced to attend after the last conviction as part of his rehabilitation the Stunticons would think twice about attacking Jazz - he knew less; apparently he was part of the confectioner’s class, which would explain why Jazz only remembered seeing him at bake sales.

Neither of them, nor Prowl or Jazz, had the frame necessary to frighten five mechs a couple vorns older than them. But if Prowl's plan worked they didn’t need to.

Leaning over the little edge surrounding the roof garden he was - not exactly legally - kneeling on Jazz nervously played with one of the snowballs lying next to him while he tried to spot Sideswipe who'd volunteered to lure them in. Next to him Prowl looked serene enough to meditate while Sunstreaker stared at the entrance to their little deadlock as if he wanted to bite into the Stunticons while he clutched the mesh ladder that they would pull up once Sideswipe had climbed on the roof.

_There!_ Jazz felt it as if a shock ran through his system as the missing twin appeared in their sight, then quickly made it up the ladder, a wide grin on his face even while his fans were running hard.

Sunstreaker hauled him up the last meters, then hugged him quickly before pulling the ladder up and ducking behind the little edge on their side, leaving the deadend to seem deserted for anyone looking in.

Not a moment too late; just as they disappeared over the edge Wildrider came around the corner, almost immediately followed by Dead End and Drag Strip.

Wildrider boggled. "Where is he?! He was here just a moment ago!"

"I saw him run in, too!" Drag Strip wasn't any less loud and kicked against an empty energon cube.

"He has to be here." Motormaster huffed around the corner, fans running, and looked into the alley as if he expected Sideswipe to jump out any moment and try to bolt. "There's no other way out."

There were quite a few trash can in the alley and they had made sure that they would provide cover, seeming like a good hiding spot for a lone mech running from a gang.

Which was exactly the conclusion they seemed to come to. Grinning broadly and ugly over the whole face Motormaster called, his voice sickly sweet: "Come out, come out, wherever you are. I promise we won't hurt you, little bot."

"Not too much, anyway", Drag Strip threw in.

"Just a few dents. Maybe a broken strut." Breakdown sounded actually hopeful.

"Just come out and give us your creds", Motormaster continued, taking a large step down the alley. "Then nothing's going to happen."

Jazz grimaced. There was no way he would have come out, even if he'd been actually chased into an alley by them. Judging by the looks on the twins faces they were equally repulsed.

Next to him Prowl adjusted the position of his sensor wings while the gang made their way down the alley, still calling out to the bot they assumed to hide from them trembling in fear, noisily pushing cans out of their way to better search and make escape harder.

Jazz felt his lips curve while they moved forward, his cheek almost hurting as they reached the end of the alley and still hadn't found anyone, so wide was his grin as he watched them stand around in confusion, having looked everywhere except _up_. Next to him Prowl held a hand up, fingers spread out, then slowly pulled one finger in.

Jazz took his snowball up, then reached for another.

Second finger down.

On the other side of the street Sunstreaker's optics had started to glow in unholy glee and Sideswipe put six snowballs on the wall in front of him, each of them bigger than his head.

Third finger.

Down below them the voices got more confused and someone kicked a trash can against the wall.

Fourth finger.

Jazz rose up, fixing Motormaster's ugly face; the Stunticon was helpfully looking in his direction.

Last finger.

One moment the air was clear - then snowballs started to fly, hitting all five Stunticons head-on.

Jazz didn't see who had been the one to throw more than one ball in their first attack, too busy throwing more snowballs at the hopelessly confused bots. He might have even felt pity whenever one of the turned towards the entrance to the deadend, only to be stopped by a well-aimed shot of one of Sideswipe's special balls and herded back towards the rest.

It certainly took the Stunticons quite a while to realize where the barrage was coming from and that there were only four small bots against them, but even once they did it barely help them - they themselves had kicked the trash cans so no-one could escape, and now it hindered their flight so much that their attackers almost ran out of snowballs until they finally managed to run.

One of them - Jazz wasn't sure but it might have been Drag Strip or Wildrider - called "You'll regret that!", and then they were gone.

Laughing Jazz sank down in the snow. "I don't think I've ever had so much fun with them!"

Next to him Prowl huffed, his field radiating amusement, doorwings flicking in a way that Jazz knew was laughing in that very restraint way of Praxian nobility (Yeah, he knew Praxian nobles. No, better don't ask).

"I'm never going to let them live that down!", Sideswipe laughed from across the street, words a little indistinct by how much he was grinning. Next to him Sunstreaker wore the first honest smile Jazz had ever seen on him.

Waving over again the twins vanished back into their building, though not without taking the last of their snowballs with them.

Turning to Prowl - who looked surprisingly cute, now that he wasn't radiating avenging-angel vibes - Jazz picked one of his own leftover snowballs up and rolled it in his hand. "You got the recording?"

Prowl actually smiled at that and nodded. "Audio of their threats, video of the whole encounter, and a few stills of them stumbling around in the snow. It should be more than enough to keep them from attacking anyone again."

"Or go snitching on us. No-one would take them serious ever again if the stills got out." Jazz grinned; he hadn't felt this good since he'd first encountered the Stunticons.

Next to him Prowl hesitated, looking at his pedes, his doorwings moving in a short flag Jazz couldn't actually interpret, before he looked up again. "Would you ... it was fun planning this with you. Would you like to come with me? To a cafe, I mean? There's one around the corner and they make very good energon crisps."

Jazz blinked. He hadn't known noble Praxians could look so adorable. It would probably have made him say yes even if he hadn't had just as much fun with the other.

Snce he’d had … grinning he took Prowl's hand. "Sure, let's do that."


	7. Dark Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of [Chapter 5, Hunter!Prowl and Vampire!Jazz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073353/chapters/52838494)
> 
> I think this is nothing but fluff and flirting (at least for the dynamic they have in this), but it might be considered dubcon, so please be aware if that's a problem for you.

Golden sunlight flooded the room, filtering through the steam hanging in the air, reflecting off of the steel ledge running along the wall of the almost bathing round room and bringing a bright sheen to the solvent that had spilled over the floor.

Around him, hot and thick and perfect, the heated oil looked like molten gold.

Spreading his doorwings Prowl let himself sink lower into the fluid, moaning at how amazing it felt to be so cradled, gentle, soft ... everything he needed. Somewhere in the distance a clear voice sang, something calm and low that blended perfectly with the tranquility permeating the room. Shuttering his optics he just floated for a long while, savoring the feeling.

He might even have fallen into recharge, too content to force himself to stay awake, when the sound of quiet steps from his right roused him. Slowly, unwillingly, he onlined his optics.

There was a mech walking towards him, slightly smaller, with a black and white color scheme not unlike his own and a glowing blue visor that looked almost white in the sun.

Slight discomfort rose in him - the mech seemed familiar, why couldn't he remember him? - and he frowned as he watched him take the steps down into the basin, oil barely sloshing as he sank into it with the grace of a dancer.

"Do I ... know you?", he asked hesitantly.

The other mech smiled, a wicked thing tinged with just enough warmth to keep Prowl resting there, against the edge of the basin.

"Don't you remember me?", he asked and his voice was beautiful, sin and sweet and thick, sliding through the air and into Prowl's audials like the mist of one of those drugs mechs vaped down in the docks, trickling into his processor and caressing his spark.

A hand touched his chest, gently petting him, and he onlined his optics - when had he _off_ lined them? A finger slid over his bumper and the thought fell apart around him ... - just as the mech took the last step closer, his bumper pressing against Prowl's, his hands reaching for the edge on both sides of Prowl, effectively boxing him in.

Shouldn't he be scared? But the mech would never hurt him ... His face came closer and Prowl could smell him, sun-warmed plating and speed and the sweet tang of energon that stayed in the back of your intake after you licked it off a wound. Lips that had never lost their smile curved even more, giving him something predatory, and just as he leaned forward even more, his face disappearing on Prowl's left side, vents warm and gentle against his neck cables, he thought he saw the sharp gleam of wicked fangs.

The soft exhales ran over his neck like a loving caress, making him lean into them with a moan. Quick, moist licking tickled his jaw and audial, turning the moan into something closer to a laugh.

"Beautiful", the mech murmured and Prowl felt him pet over his doorwings where they rested close to his hands. "Absolutely gorgeous. I just wished I could always have you like this ..."

His hand found a tense cable, gently massaging it, and Prowl groaned, pushing his door into the touch, all too happy to stay here.

A soft laugh answered him but he didn't mind, not when the mech indulged him, strong fingers digging into the knot and loosening it.

"We really have to do that when you are awake", the mech said, and there was an almost wistful tone to his voice. Not that Prowl actually listened, acknowledging that he had said something only with another groan and more snuggling against the warm plating. "Yeah, we really need to. But for now you will have to wake up or I fear you will be very angry with me."

The mech's warm body was gone so fast Prowl gasped, cold air flooding in, surrounding him - but that couldn't be, where was the hot oil, he'd been in an oil-bath, wasn’t he? Why was it so cold here? Almost like the nights in the Crystal Mountains in autumn -

Gasping Prowl onlined his optics, hand already reaching for his blessed staff - but of course Jazz was already out of his reach, crouching in the entrance of their tent, a dark silhouette against the beginning dawn outside. The flap fluttered around him, letting the icy mountain air flood the tent - the tent they had shared because Bluestreak, who was now coming up behind Jazz with a worried expression on his face, had had the last watch and not even Prowl's ~~annoying attraction to Jazz~~ annoyance over Jazz' advances was enough to force the vampire to sleep out in the cold when they would both be warmer together while Bluestreak was bundled up outside in most of their covers.

"Is everything alright?", he called now, keeping a little distance between himself and the vampire; the decaorn since they'd taken him with them from the demon's castle hadn't been enough to make him relax around Jazz.

Jazz, of course, enjoyed his reaction. Though his wide grin could also be entirely for Prowl's benefit. "Of course he is. Just had a really nice dream." His grin became, if anything, even wider when Prowl growled. The dream had _not_ been that nice! "Sorry about that rude waking. Didn't think you'd like me going further without you being aware of everything." A last wink from his visor, and then he was gone, the flap of the tent falling shut behind him.

And Prowl stayed behind, trying to convince himself that the annoyance in his chest was because he was angry, and not him being disappointed that Jazz had, for once, been a perfect gentlemech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now continued in [chapter 12](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073353/chapters/53121058)


	8. Opera Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Phantom~~ Prowler of the Opera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read this prompt and honestly, I couldn't resist. It just works so very well with them XD
> 
> Lyrics are from the Musical, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JaeBxYCI9k) would be the song if you want to listen to it.

Jazz returned to the stage, immediately accosted by the heat of the spotlights, even if they were currently dimmed, the scene plunged into darkness. His fans, only just calmed, already tried to spin up, again only to be overrode by the stealth mode every professional performer had installed.

A spotlight found him as he spun over the stage, reflecting off his silvery white paint until he was practically glowing, optics dialed down so he wouldn't be blinded. The orchestra had quieted, only the softest of sounds drifting over the scene, while he found his place in front of the mirror, taking off the mask that he'd worn for his 'performance'. His optics searched the reflection until he found the box shrouded in shadows up in the second row, one of the best places in the theater. Unlike all the other boxes there was no-one leaning over the edge, trying to see what was going on; only the merest hint of light betrayed that someone was occupying it at all.

And yet even that little trace already had his spark spinning.

Behind him Bluestreak came up, his voice young and innocently excited just as Gentlestar's would be, gushing about Clearsong's performance and asking questions that Jazz answered just as absently as Clearsong would, his processor more occupied with thinking about the mysterious stranger that had taken such an interest in him.

Because what could be more ironic than a theater _whose primary sponsor was a mech shrouded in_ _secrets_ _, prowling the_ _shadows_ _behind the stage like a ghost and sending gifts to whoever had performed particularly well_ , putting on a show that featured just such a mech, teaching a choir singer to sing better than the renowned prima donna and then later stepping into the light to make him his conjunx.

Considering Prowl – as they’d taken to calling him, after his habit to walk through the shadows – was the theater’s main sponsor there had been a lot of nervous talk before they had adopted the play, no matter how celebrated it was, though rumor had it that he'd laughed loud enough to be heard in the hallway outside of the director's office when the director had informed him of their decision.

From what Jazz knew of the mech and his sense of humor he could just about believe it.

Because as if the musical itself wasn’t already ironic enough because of their _patron_ , then the fact that Jazz himself wouldn't have gotten the role of Clearsong - or any of the lead roles he'd had these last vorns - without Prowl's secret coaching, helping him to develop his talent until he was allowed to sing roles that were usually left to seekers and their more developed sound systems. It meant that he'd spend many evenings with Prowl while the others were out, singing for a shadow until his vocalizer was sore and he thought he would never get it right, just for that hint of a smile, optics half-dimmed to better listen, and the soft sigh of pleasure that was even better than the praise Prowl was so very generous with.

Bluestreak stepped back as Gentlestar left his friend's room, and another voice floated through the air, demanding yet soft, longing, calling Clearsong's name and Jazz turned as if trying to find it, find the mech standing on one of the platforms just two boxes to the right of Prowl's.

It was hard to look at the performer, sing back his lines, when the real mysterious stranger sat just a few meters to the left.

Because somewhere during their evenings together they had started to talk about more than singing, Jazz talking about his daily life outside the theater, Prowl speaking of places he had been to, people he'd met. His voice was smooth, stern - he might have been a singer, or a noble with proper training - and Jazz had found that he _liked_ listening to it, liked hearing Prowl speak.

Liked, in fact, _Prowl_.

So when the seeker playing the Phantom came close, almost touching, and the music changed, it was not the audience he sang to, or Starscream, but his very own Prowler of the Dark.

> In sleep he sang to me
> 
> In dream he came
> 
> That voice which calls to me
> 
> And speaks my name
> 
> And do I dream again?
> 
> For now I find
> 
> The Phantom of the Opera is there
> 
> Inside my mind

Starscream stepped close, stopped the fluttering of his wings and reached for Jazz' hands, the Phantom pulling Clearsong closer and closer into his net, let him closer and closer to his spark.

> Sing once again with me
> 
> Our strange duet
> 
> My power over you
> 
> Grows stronger yet
> 
> And though you turn from me
> 
> To glance behind
> 
> The Phantom of the Opera is there
> 
> Inside your mind

Following the hand leading him Jazz danced, putting his body on display in a spotlight, half-hiding the seeker who disappeared behind him in the shadows.

The mask the Phantom wore.

The mech coached by someone who knew too much about singing, who's voice was to practiced, to not have been one at some time, giving a face to all that training.

> Those who have seen your face
> 
> Draw back in fear
> 
> I am the mask you wear
> 
> It's me they hear

And there Starscream was, his frame spooning Jazz' from behind, hot and slick from condensed moisture, vents roaring and arms cradling him close.

And there was Prowl, a silhouette just a hint lighter than the darkness surrounding him, his optics molten gold and looking directly into Jazz.

And Jazz found his voice reaching further than ever before, sound directly from his spark.

> Your spirit and my voice
> 
> In one, combined
> 
> The Phantom of the Opera is there
> 
> Inside my mind

Jazz spun away, his pedes flying over the stage as if he had no weight, with Starscream around him, moving like another piece of a clockwork, a dance partner ...

.. a lover.

When Jazz came to a stop Starscream was there, stopping in front of him, encouraging him to sing with the voice of a master of chanting.

> Sing my angel of music

And Jazz did.

His optics should be on the Phantom, Clearsong falling for his teacher, but he couldn't keep them from wandering over to the box, to the shadow hiding there. Couldn't - didn't want to - keep the longing, the love from his voice, strong and yet tender, a spark easily broken by rejection.

Just one sound, dancing along the scale, laying his spark bare and begging for acknowledgment.

> Sing my angel
> 
> Sing for me

Always. Always for him.

> Sing
> 
> Sing my angel
> 
> Sing for me

When his voice died at last silence reigned in the hall, a hush settled over the whole crowd - and then someone started to clap, and another, and suddenly the whole room applauded, ignoring that this was Not The Thing To Be Done.

Beside him Jazz could feel Starscream, his fans working hard to keep up with the exertion, his frame trembling - he was one of Vos' best singers and it showed - but Jazz' optics were only on one place, on one mech.

A mech that had gone terribly still, optics opened wider than he had ever known them, and Jazz feared that he had gone too far. Had forced his unwanted feelings on a mech who wanted nothing to do with them.

And it stung, of course it did - rejection always did - but what truly froze his spark was the fear that he had hurt someone he'd come to love as a teacher and friend long before he had truly fallen for him. Someone who he didn't want to lose, didn't want to lose their friendship.

Within a crowd of people cheering for him, with another mech standing in touching distance, he suddenly felt very helpless and alone.

The reaction, when it came, was small enough that for anyone else it wouldn't have meant anything. But when Prowl raised his hand, light faintly illuminating a white fist, and pressed it first to his mouth and then his spark in the gesture of a mech accepting a proposal -

\- then Jazz spark truly sang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure whether I'll update tomorrow ~~busy day is busy~~ , so until tomorrow or friday


	9. Lost Glove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, doorwings are lke hands for Praxians, yes? ... doesn't matter, there's no real reason for a Transformer to have gloves
> 
> This is set into a Post-War Cybertron, where the factions mixed up to build a new government

For a mech as smart as Jazz usually was, he could be quite an idiot. That he worked literally in _I_ _ntelligence_ only made it worse.

Prowl had been prepared to cut him some slack - Jazz was Polyhexian, and sparked into the commoner class, too; there was no reason he should know anything about the courting traditions of the Praxian elite Prowl’s family had belonged to.

But, honestly? Over the last stellar cycle he'd left his right wing coat - the covering for his doorwing that he'd leave for his intended as sign of his interest - in and around Jazz for no less than _twenty-three_ times. Yet instead of asking him out by gifting him a different one - one that would symbolize him instead of showing the crest of Prowl's family - or sending it back via courier in rejection Jazz had always, without fail, returned it to him personally.

His tactical processor had calculated a 98.56% chance of Jazz realizing what it meant within the first 12 times of Prowl _l_ _osing_ his coat. 56% of him realizing it within the first 8 times. 22% even within the first 5.

The chance of Jazz not realizing what was going on after _23 times_ was so low that Prowl hadn't even seriously considered it, especially with a mech known for beating odds.

And yet here he was, sitting in Jazz' office over their holochess game while they spend their lunch break playing, his wing coats lying on the table next to the board where he'd put them earlier, fully prepared to _forget_ the right one again.

If he was honest with himself Prowl might be a little desperate. For an answer, of course - not knowing where he stood with Jazz was almost worse than even a negative answer - but also about what to do next at all. The first time he'd left his coating he hadn't expected Jazz to react. Nor, truly, the second. By the third he'd started tracking the chances of a reaction, watching them go higher and higher - and then higher and higher _again_ until they reached an absurdly low failure chance and _yet Jazz still managed to not react_.

By now Prowl almost felt like caught in a loop, unable to break the cycle of plan and hope and purgatory and plan again. Unable even to just come right out and tell Jazz that he liked him, loved him, that he would love to be more than just friends with him.

An alert went off in his mind and he felt his spark speed up as he realized that his next chance was here. Looking up from the board he dipped his doorwings in apology. "The break will be over in a bream. I need to return to my office."

Jazz just grinned back at him, mouth so very kissable on the other side of the board and yet so very far away. "Sure. See ya tomorrow, then? Or has old Megs ya working on the same slag as Soundwave?"

Giving him a - more perfunctory than honestly felt - admonishing look Prowl took up the board so he could save the game for their next playing session. " _Lord High Protector Megatron_ has given me that same task, yes. Which is why I, as his Second in Command, assigned it to Soundwave since he is far more qualified for it."

Laughing only made Jazz more beautiful, his visor sparkling in mirth, his bumper moving to the tact of his vents. "Knew mixing up factions had to be good for something. Just never thought it would be watching you ride Soundwave's aft."

There was another aft he would much rather ride, but Prowl kept that to himself. Instead he only allowed himself a small smile, put the board into his subspace and picked up his coats - carefully ensuring that the right one would fall back down on the table while he looked at Jazz.

His doorwings moving in concert with his nod he took his leave. In his chest he could feel his spark spin faster, hope and dread both making it hard to swallow, hard to think. Hard to keep from turning back and _begging_ Jazz for an answer - and yet he could _n_ _o_ _t_ do that, either, not with that endless loop running his actions, his hope, his life.

There was an odd sound from behind him, like a drawer being opened and closed, but he ignored it while he send the ping to the door to open it.

It got overridden before the door had even fully opened.

"You forget your coat again", Jazz said behind him, his steps coming up, and he felt his spark freeze for a moment - his hope destroyed another time - before it picked up again at a rate that seemed just a little heavier than usual.

Forcing his suddenly numb lips to curve into a slight smile he turned around, ready to pretend that he was grateful for the reminder - only to stare a little dumbly at the mesh Jazz was offering him.

It was a wing coat, alright. The same almost translucent material as any proper coat - they were supposed to protect his wings from the cold and too strong sensations, not make him completely numb - and white as his plating. Yet instead of the black-and-red crest he was used to there was a blue note, it's body so dark it was almost black while it's tail lightened to cerulean. Crossing the tail was a silver dagger, it's energon-colored blade gleaming in the light of the office lamps.

Prowl's processor was too stumped by the unexpected sight for anything but looking into Jazz' nervous optics and asking, dumbly: "What?"

Jazz tried a smile; the attempt didn't look even close to real. "I ... if I'm wrong correct me but ... I know that leaving a wing coat for Praxians has a meaning similar to sending blue and white crystals in Iacon. So if ... if that is how you meant this ..."

"I left my coat with you for 24 times", might not be the best answer to the bot he loved finally _finally_ answering his proposal, but it was the only one his processor could come up with in this moment. In his chest his spark was spinning even faster than when he'd left the coat on Jazz' table, his chest plates strangely warm over it and the energon thundering in his lines.

At least he didn't seem to be alone in his awkwardness. Looking up with shy hope on his face plates Jazz asked: "Is that a yes?"

And when Prowl's vocalizer could only come up with static, the myriad of things he wanted to say all conflicting with each other, he caught Jazz' visor with his optics and turned a little to the side, offering his wing for Jazz to apply the coat to.

The touch of Jazz' hands on his plates left lines of fire, reaching deep into his frame and seemingly touching his spark. The barely noticeable presence of the light mesh on his wing like a true, tangible sign of Jazz' answer.

Because this was his answer, and the sudden realization broke the strange feeling that had come over Prowl, made him turn out of the position and Jazz' hold to step close to - to his lover, reaching for him and pulling him close, his fingers digging into his frame as if they didn't ever want to let go - they didn't, he didn't - and he touched his chevron to Jazz' forehead.

"Yes", he said, answered, begged, thanked. "Yes it is."

  
  


-*-*-*-

  
  


When they stepped away from each other again Jazz chuckled. "It's good that you said yes. Otherwise I would have had to kill Mirage for blackmailing me into ordering this for you."

"You wouldn't have said yes otherwise?" Prowl stared at his mate.

Jazz only grinned helplessly. "I ... I thought you couldn't mean it. Not with me. That it had to truly be a mistake."

"I left my coat with you for 23 times."

"Yeah, that's what Soundwave said, too. Also that he would lock us into a room until we talked about it if I let you forget your coat one more time before we start a war like _the other love-sick fools that he knows_."


	10. Flu Season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first idea for this chapter was actually flu - virus - Oh, let's make it a love ~~spell~~ virus. Which I think is still an awesome idea but went too far off the prompt.  
> Second idea was typical sick fic which would have been nice, but. Not what I wanted.  
> So, third idea. Let's explore a never before seen facet of the Cybertronian health care system: Pharmacies

Jazz glared at the mech standing in line in front of him _who apparently couldn't chose between two perfectly valid after-exposure virus-blockers_ and tried to keep from impatiently tapping his pede. Which wasn’t easy, considering the countdown blinking merrily in the corner of his HUD.

Ironhide would have his helm if he was too late for an inspection of the Prime. Though, actually, it wouldn’t be really Jazz’ fault this time. He couldn’t very well buy his supplements while he was on a mission, and when he ran out it meant that he had to go to a pharmacy and pick them up first thing once he returned. Either that, or risk  _Ratchet_ getting mad at him, and between Ironhide, Prime and Ratchet the doctor was without doubt the scariest.

Just – did it have to be virus season? Every winter, without fail, some aftheads would use the combination of increased processor power due to the cold and forced frame inactivity – also due to temperatures – to invent some new viruses and release them into the net. And, without fail, every winter half the population would realize their virus protection hadn’t been updated in way too long. 

Frag them. Why couldn't they get their boosters in time? Where they afraid of staying healthy? What did they fear they’d get from a shot?

At least in Intelligence up-to-date virus protection was mandatory; Jazz wasn’t sure what he would do if any of his fellow agents came ever down with some virus a youngling had cooked up in the basement.

Tease them about it for the rest of their life, probably.

Finally the mech before him managed to decide between the overwhelmingly big selection and the pharmacist rang up his order.

Queuing his id-ping up – with a bit of luck he might just make it in time – Jazz waited another two kliks until the mech had transferred the shanix and shuffled away, and then stepped up to the counter. Remembering his manners – it wasn’t the pharmacist’s fault the customer had needed so long – he worked up a smile and a “Hello, I would like to pick up my prescription” while he looked up -

\- and promptly lost his train of thought. Behind the counter stood one of the most stunning mechs he’d ever seen in his entire functioning.

He was a Praxian, which was already enough to make Jazz itch with the desire to run his fingers over those long, gorgeous white doorwings and lick the sensitive red chevron crowning his helm. He’d had Praxian lovers before and the noises they made when he played with their sensors … _addicting_. And as if that wasn’t enough already this Praxian had the strong frame and most of the color scheme of a Praxian enforcer, which meant that not only could he easily hold Jazz down in the berth he was also a mystery. And if there was anything more likely to catch a spy’s attention than a mystery then Jazz certainly hadn’t encountered it yet.

Glacier-blue optics mustered him over the money tray and he pinged his name; Prowl and oh, if that wasn’t just giving Jazz _ideas_. “Good orn to you, too. I’ll need your id to fill in your prescription for you.”

Jazz’ spark stopped spinning for a moment, and then started again twice as fast. Even his voice was beautiful! Today really had to be his lucky day!

Well, or at least it would be If he managed not to stand here and stare at him like – well, like the last customer. Maybe he’d been wrong about why the mech had needed so long.

Feeling his fans try to pick up speed to dispel embarrassed heat he silently thanked Primus for his stealth mods; it really wouldn't do for him to let the pharmacist know what he was thinking.

Instead he curved his lips into a bashful smile and pinged his id over. “Sorry, I was distracted. You’re new, aren’t you?” He was pretty sure he would remember having seen him before.

The other mech only nodded, his optics flashing a little as he looked Jazz’ prescription up. Probably surprised by the supplements; mis-framed sparks alone were already very rare, and most chose a re-framing instead of taking supplements to ensure their frame and spark got what they needed. Mis-framed _symbionts_ were, as far as Jazz was aware, even more rare, and he was pretty sure that he was the only one not choosing to live with a carrier.

“One moment please”, Prowl finally said. “I’ll get your supplements.”

Jazz stared after him as he vanished into the back. Prowl had a really fine aft, and his thighs looked strong enough that Jazz would bet all four of his tires that, enforcer or not, he was still practicing some kind of martial arts. Not to mention that his doorwings looked even more enticing when they waved slightly up and down with their owner’s steps.

Prowl was back within a klick, putting the familiar red box down on the counter. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

And Jazz  _knew_ that you don’t flirt with people at their workplace. He really did. But … “Crystalocution or Diffusion?”, 

Prowl’s optics cycled in confusion, his hand wavering over the counter. “Excuse me?”

Jazz wanted to curse himself but, well. He couldn’t actually stop now, could he? “What are you practicing - Crystalocution or Diffusion?”

Now Prowl looked ample bemused, though his optics had gotten that sharp gleam Jazz was used to see from other mechs working in Intelligence. Not a simple enforcer, then.

“Both, actually”, he admitted. “Though I’m not a master in either. How did you know?”

Well, he’d asked. Here was hoping he wouldn't be weirded out by the explanation; being a spy sometimes really wasn’t that easy. “Your frame. You’ve been forged as a Praxian enforcer, and Praxian requires for its enforcers to be taught at least one kind of combat art. And you look like you still practice.” Prowl seemed more impressed than angry, and it was this that made Jazz ask: “You’ve found a dojo in Iacon yet?”

Prowl hesitated and Jazz realized that he’d overstepped. Yet before he could backtrack Prowl slowly shook his helm. “I’m still looking into it. You have a recommendation?”

Jazz pinged him the address of master Yoketron’s dojo before he could get cold pedes. “The master’s teaching Metallikito, but they’ve got a couple more teachers for other combat styles. And it’s not far from here.”

There was again that light in Prowl’s optics; apparently he was looking it up. “This sounds promising. Thank you”, he said, finally, and there was a little smile on his lips. Not the empty, meaningless one for customers that he’d worn the entire time but a real one. It just made Jazz’ spark miss a rotation again with how much _more_ beautiful it made him look.

“No problem”, he said, hoarsely, then almost jumped as the alert in his HUD went off. He had exactly two breems until he was required to be at work, and he would need at least a breem to get there.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Jazz couldn’t help the pained grimace appearing on his face. “Just realized that I’m about to be late for work. I … may see you at the dojo?” And that sounded definitely more hopeful than he’d intended.

But Prowl didn’t seem offended. Instead there was another light smile on his lips and he nodded. “I would like that, yes.”

Definitely his lucky day.


	11. Hot chocolate my way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that my first idea for this was a coffeshop AU.  
> Yeah, that changed quite a bit ...
> 
> Warning: NSFW, consensual BDSM

It had started with the whole gang – Bumblebee, the twins, Ratchet, Ironhide and Optimus – descending upon Jazz’ and his shared quarters for a long night of drinks.

Considering Sideswipe had been part of the racket there had been a truth-or-dare game which, somewhere during the night and quite possibly due to Optimus’ and Jazz’ influence, had turned into a game of _everyone_ answering questions. And at one point Ironhide had turned to Prowl and asked: “How do you like your energon best?”

And maybe it was because he’d just had a more than slightly tipsy Jazz in his lap, grinning up at him and trying to convince him to kiss him, but he’d had a very explicit image in his cortex that moment – one that he had _n_ _o_ _t_ wanted to share with the rest of the bots at all – and so he’d only allowed himself a small smile and said “My way, of course” and accepted the booing and penal drink Sideswipe had pushed at him.

  
  


Yet that image wouldn’t leave him, not that night, not the next morning when they were sober again and Jazz had grinned up at him from the nest he’d made out of their berth and and pillows and blankets, and not in the two decaorns since.

Which was why he had requested a few cubes of Sideswipe’s rust-and-cinnabar energon and then carefully warmed them up while he prepared everything else.

When Jazz returned to their quarters this afternoon he never stood a chance.

  
  


Jazz rebooted from his involuntary nap just in time to watch Prowl tie the last of his limbs to the corner of their berth. Making sure to get out of reach he watched as his lover slowly took in the position he was in.

Their berth had been covered with soft towels, and when Jazz moved a little there was the tell-tale sound of a tarp crinkling under it. His weapons – at least those that Prowl could remove without major surgery – had been removed and put into a pile on a blanket next to their berth together with most of their pillows.

Not that it would have helped Jazz to have them – his limbs had been tied to the four corners of the berth, leaving his frame helpless and open for Prowl’s perusal.

For a certain definition of _helpless_ at least. This was Jazz, after all – Prowl was sure that he could still escape if he wanted to.

Slowly the visor brightened in amusement, wandering over to Prowl while his mouth curved into a teasing smile. “Ya know, A was wondering when ya were gonna use that code again.”

Allowing his own smile to show Prowl stepped closer again now that he was sure that his lover knew where he was, and that he was safe. “If you had told me that all your trouble-making was you trying to get me to tie you up, you should just have said something.”

Jazz chuckled. “Na, that was me trying to get back at Ironhide. And Sideswipe. Maybe Bumblebee.” His visor sparkled. “Wanna tell me what yer gonna do to lil’ old me?”

“I will show you”, Prowl promised and went to get the last of what he’d prepared.

He had been looking forward to this quite a lot, and so he made sure to hurry when he picked everything up. Yet when he returned into the berth room there was no way he wouldn’t freeze at the sight awaiting him.

Jazz – the same mech who always _always_ hid his readiness for a fight under jokes and loose moves, whose cables were always just tense enough to jump an enemy and who treasured his freedom above all else – had gone lax in his bindings. His legs were splayed wide, opening him for everything Prowl wanted to do to him. His arms rested on the pillow he’d left at the headboards, supporting their weight. His visor – which never missed anything, too sharp, too trained – had gone dim, his helm resting so far back that there was little Jazz might see but the ceiling of their quarters.

All in all it was a sight Prowl knew very well not many had ever seen – and even less been granted this privilege while Jazz was sober.

Slowly he walked over, depositing the cubes on the bedside table. When he looked back at his lover he caught a curious visor watching him – curious, but entirely unafraid.

“Energon?”, Jazz asked. “That’s not really something ya would need ta tie me up for.”

Smiling Prowl sat down next to him. Watched as his weight made the berth sink, and Jazz’ relaxed frame follow the movement.

“You’ll see”, he only said, his hand coming to rest on his lover’s frame. “How do you feel?”

“That yer way of asking whether A’ve had dinner?” Mirth made Jazz’ visor sparkle, yet he relented after only a moment, too curious about what Prowl had planned. “Na, not yet. Wanted to fuel with ya.” A chuckle. “Just not entirely how A planned that.”

Allowing himself to chuckle, too, Prowl ran his fingers over Jazz’ side, slowly stroking and petting and relishing in the way Jazz pushed into his touch. His frame was warm and  _real_ under his hand as it wasn’t for his sensors – too many stealth mods, some of them impossible to turn off. Yet the way his frame moved with his vents was something real, tangible, and Prowl wanted to tangle his fingers in the cables and hook his fingers under the seams in his plating until Jazz was moaning and begging in all the best ways.

But that wasn’t how he intended to play this game tonight, no matter how the thought alone send a wave of heat rolling through him.

Taking one of the cubes with his free hand he climbed onto the berth, moving so that he could easily reach every part of his lover’s frame. Jazz visor had turned brighter again, curiosity always his weakest point – every spy’s weakest point, really, but in this as in most Jazz was even more extreme – and Prowl allowed himself to caress his cheek. Enjoyed how Jazz pushed into his hold, face nestling in his hand.

“You will like this”, he promised and Jazz smiled back, gently as he rarely showed himself to be.

“A know”, he just said.

And how could Prowl not reward this trust with a kiss? With lips on Jazz’, a glossa tangling with his, a hand holding him close while he explored his mouth; allowed his lover to explore him back. Warm and comfortable and gentle, even with Jazz starting to get worked up.

When Prowl pulled back it was to a rather endearing pout on Jazz’ face.

“You will like this”, he promised again.

Then he moved back a little and opened the cube. 

There was steam rising up immediately from it, bringing with it the warm tang of iron oxide and the sharper scent of cinnabar. 

From where he sat Prowl had a beautiful view as Jazz first looked a little confused and then, when Prowl started to tilt the cube, the best kind of apprehensive.

When the first drops scattered over Jazz’ chestplate he moaned, his frame jerking back almost on instinct alone – they’d shared oil-baths hotter than this without damage but his frame was still more susceptible to heat than Prowl’s, and the droplets were a stark contrast to the cool temperature of his frame.

Slowly, methodically, Prowl moved the cube over Jazz’ frame, splattering drops all over his chest and stomach until there were little puddles in the hollows, and trickles running down his sides. Watched as his lover moved under the onslaught, trembling, shivering, moaning. Unable to truly categorize it as danger or pleasure, and therefore unable to decide how to react.

Prowl wasn’t cruel, for all that he enjoyed his lover’s helpless state, relished in the lust it ignited in him. He was more than willing to help him chose.

Putting the empty cube aside he leaned forward, one hand coming to rest on the berth on Jazz’ other side, his face for one short moment only a small distance from Jazz’.

There was such beautiful anguish on his lover’s face, his lips trembling, his visor bright. How could he not help increase it?

Bowing down he touched his glossa to a patch of frame just on the peak of Jazz’ bumper, then licked a stripe all the way up to the hollow of his throat.

When Sideswipe distilled energon it usually was of amazing taste – the main reason the command cadre pretended not to know about the distillery he had set up in an empty room. This here, however, was one of his best creations, and it was only enhanced by the subtle taste of Jazz under it: warm metal, smoke, the sharp hint of electricity. 

Moaning Prowl let himself rest there, so close to his lover that he could smell him even over the energon, his fast vents warm on his helm, the sound he made deep in his vocalizer so close he couldn’t  _not_ hear it.

“Please”, Jazz moaned finally. “Please, more.”

And Prowl was only too glad to deliver.

Moving back he found a new patch to clean right next to the first, then another on the side, and then, when Jazz was moaning so loud and helplessly again, he didn’t stop at his throat, just went on, finding his way over his jaw and his cheek and finally his mouth, descending upon it almost as ferociously as Jazz attacked  _him_ , his glossa delving deep into Prowl’s mouth and tasting,  _feeding_ , off him.

Scrambling for the other cube he moved back, Jazz following him with sounds that were more feral than loving, sobbing, his visor bright and unseeing. It only took him a moment to get the seal open  _though it took still too long_ and then he was upon him again, kissing his mouth before moving just far enough away that he could trickle a little energon between his hungry lips.

_Primus_ , the sounds Jazz made! Hungry, feral,  _wild_ as if he was starving, and when Prowl moved in again there were dentae on his lips, biting, a glossa reaching into his mouth as if he were food that Jazz had been starved of.

The heat in his frame started to boil and his own moans mingled with Jazz’, both of them worked up enough that charge began to snap against his plating, sharp and punishing, and he moved back a little, trying to vent, to  _think_ . Jazz scrabbled under him, mouth following him, dentae bared as he tried to keep him close, but the little distance had helped restore some iota of sense back into him.

“Not yet”, he said, one hand petting Jazz’ cheek, his optics drinking in the sight of his lover: desperately aroused, with energon and oral lubricant smeared liberally all over his face, his frame, expression hungry and needy and helpless. Vents hitching on something that might just be sobs. Charge crackling all over his frame.

Beautiful.

And only for him.

Pushing the cube away he moved back to his lover’s frame, glossa running hungrily over the energon, licking through puddles and rivulets and steadily working its way downwards, closer, closer to an array that was already waiting for him, open and dripping.

Open and dripping as his own array, and just as he reached the soft folds of Jazz’ warm valve, his glossa swirling over the outer fold and Jazz  _screaming_ above him he allowed himself to run a finger over his own no less valve.

Never before had he been as grateful for his processor power as here, now. Glossa working its way into Jazz’ valve, tasting his fluids, drenching his own face while Jazz sobbed above him as he licked his anterior node, gently teased him with his dentae or delved deep enough to  _feel_ the valve rippling around the intruder, and at the same time working his own valve, running fingers over it or pushing them in, one, two, finding the inner node that made him cry out, lubricant dripping down his hand, his wrist. 

And all the time the charge was rising between them. Heat in their frames that not even fully roaring vents could handle anymore, lightning grounding in each other’s plating. Jazz’ voice, usually so smooth and casual, was raw and honest as it rarely was, calling for Prowl, begging for mercy, for relief, for -

The sharp snap of a valve overload against his face  _hurt_ , charge crashing into Prowl like a wall, and he couldn’t contain himself anymore, his fingers sliding deep into him and then he was overloading, too, his vision going blazing white, an electric storm bursting through his frame and sweeping his consciousnesses under.

When he came back to himself he was still lying between his lover’s legs, helm cushioned on his thigh. Over him Jazz was still venting hard, frame rocking with the motion, and he could feel himself do the same.

“Frag”, Jazz moaned finally and his voice was shot, static making his words hard to understand. “That was better than dinner in the common room.”

Glaring at the white thigh, then giving in because he was too exhausted, he managed an answer. “I would hope so.”

Jazz’ answer was a weak chuckle.

They stayed like this a while longer, frames cooling and vents slowing, pressure returning to weak hydraulics, before Prowl finally dragged himself to his hands and knees again.

Picking the dampened wash cloths from the side table he started to clean Jazz, then himself, before he realized that he should have released his lover first. At least Jazz wasn’t saying something, relishing in the afterglow as he watched Prowl move around with half-dimmed visor.

Nor was he moving while Prowl opened the cuffs and pulled the towels and tarp from the berth, except to make it a little easier for him, until Prowl finally fell down beside him. Then Jazz turned, movements slow and sleepy, snuggling closer to him, his warm frame fitting so very well against Prowl’s after vorns of sharing a berth.

“Tha’s how ya like yer energon?”, he mumbled, one hand weakly petting over the edge of a doorwing. Prowl couldn’t see his face, but he sounded half into recharge already.

Pulling him just a little closer Prowl let his chin rest on the top of Jazz’ helmet. “Yes.”

“Mmmh ...” Warm vents moved over Prowl’s throat, slow and regular. “Thin’ th’s ma fav’rite, too ...”

Smiling it didn’t take Prowl long to follow his lover into recharge.


	12. Ice stars on the window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Vampire!Jazz and Hunter!Prowl
> 
> Not really happy with how this turned out, but it grew longer than anticipated and I need to go to sleep, so ... yeah.

Winter in the mountains was .. an experience. Even if one was as old as Jazz.

Well, maybe _especially_ if one was as old as Jazz. He'd gone through that once while he was still alive, and then he'd made sure for the next couple hundred vorns to _never ever again_ get caught anywhere close to anything even slightly hilly when the temperatures started to drop.

Of course he would have to break that resolve for a monster hunt. _Unicron damn_ that little Prime and his earnest optics into the coldest corners of space, but frag if he could have said no when asked whether he wanted to join the hunters as visible sign that, _yes_ , _this_ Prime believed that not all not-mechs were monsters.

Frag him to the pit and back for believing his own words and inspiring other people to want to help make them come true.

Not that it truly was such a sacrifice for Jazz. Citizenship came for him with the requirement of obeying the laws which, since Prime's little big official resolution, involved _not drinking from people without_ _permission_.

And _gaining permission_ wasn’t difficult when you looked like Jazz and a little sip from his syphon just spiced a good 'face up. Usually people called _him_ about donating energon, not the other way around.

And even on the days he couldn't entice anyone into his berth - the guild was paying him quite well; he could pay for his needs.

And then there was always his sweet sweet hunting partner ...

"Another!", someone shouted, cutting off his train of thought, and he realized that his last song had ended while he'd been lost in thoughts, his fingers stilling on the vibriola.

Grinning he looked up at his adoring audience.

They'd reached the little collection of houses half a jour before sunset, and with how the already freezing temperature was dropping even more once the sun was gone it hadn't taken more than Bluestreak's shattering plating to convince Prowl to stay in the warm inn over night.

Of course, with the region being so far from the bigger cities the inhabitants held certain prejudices against vampires - Jazz couldn't even blame them; too many of his brethren were absolutely _stuck_ in their unnecessarily messy ways - so they'd introduced themselves as simply three warriors seeking employment in the capital to avoid someone going on a tirade against Unicron-spawn.

It wasn't that Jazz didn't agree; he just preferred to not be compared at length to mosquibots, thank you very much.

It also meant that Jazz could practice his skills with the vibriola in front of an audience willing to show much more gratefulness than Prowl or Bluestreak. And speaking of which: still smiling wide he put his fingers back on the string, repositioned his bow, and started into another song, a drinking song that earned him loud cheer from the village people.

  
  


Yet no matter how much he enjoyed their good cheer he _had_ been on his pede since dawn, wandering continually uphill, and he felt it. Not even his vampire frame could go on endlessly, and both Bluestreak and Prowl had already left the for their room.

With how unused to walking longer distances the little guard was he had stumbled upstairs as soon as he had finished dinner, no doubt falling into his berth as soon as he reached it. Prowl, on the other side, had stayed for a while, watching him tune his vibriola and then play for the villagers.

With how long they’d been partners now – longer than Jazz had ever had a partner before, even when he was still alive and traversing the lands as a traveling musician – Jazz was quite sure that it wasn’t to ensure that he didn’t kill anyone. And he knew that it could just be Prowl enjoying the other mechs around him, and the warmth and light of the public room – both things he would have to do without again as soon as they left tomorrow. And yet he couldn’t help the small flickering hope igniting in him – the hope that it was because Prowl, for all his flaunted indifference,  _liked_ his music.

It had made him play a couple of love songs – the slower, quieter ones because Prowl didn’t usually like fast music – and maybe, maybe, he had even seen a quick smile once or twice on his partner’s lips before he’d vanished upstairs.

Finishing his last song under the protest of his adoring audience  _who just wanted him to play one last song, yes?_ until the innkeeper stepped in he returned his viobriola into his subspace, then picked up the two cubes he’d asked off the bartender a while ago and managed to escape to their room before they could actually convince him to stay longer.

So he liked playing music. And being praised for his skills. Who could blame him?

Prowl sat cross-legged on his berth, absorbed into the datapad in his lap, but he looked up when Jazz came in, his optics immediately drawn to the cubes in Jazz’ hands.

“Shouldn’t the demon still sate you?”

Jazz shrugged and walked over, pleased to see that Prowl wasn’t twitching away like most of his former hunting partners. “ _Now_ , yes, but there’s no telling when we’ll next have a room with lockable door.” And he was always hungry for his partner, just not in quite the same way he was for energon. Not that he would show that, so instead he continued on with a lazy drawl: “And since you _insisted_ on dragging the little guard with us we should probably avoid terrifying him further.”

In all honesty, Primus may smite him if he lied, Jazz liked Bluestreak. There weren’t many normal mechs out there who even _tried_ to treat him like a person instead of a feral beast. And while Bluestreak was still undeniably afraid of him he’d never let that influence how he treated Jazz.

It probably helped that Jazz was able to keep up with the stream of words the mech could produce if not interrupted; he’d gotten the feeling that most people cut him off very quickly.

Prowl sighed, but put his datapad away. “You are right”, he conceded. “Just remember that I will have to walk tomorrow.”

Jazz smirked, enjoying the optic-roll it earned him, and let the cubes fall on the berth next to Prowl, then sank smoothly to his knees in front of him.

Prowl moved to the edge of the berth, his legs falling open around Jazz’ frame, then offered him his wrist without further prompting. It left Jazz in a somewhat … suggestive position, yet it was surprisingly the one they were both most comfortable with.

And speaking of which … Jazz tilted his helm back and looked up at his partner’s calm face. “You know, most people aren’t this comfortable with fueling a vampire.”

Prowl’s expression didn’t change. “The likelihood of you draining me dry while you are in your right mind is below 2.3 percent. I think I am safe.” There was a small hesitation, then a spike in his field almost as if he was ... embarrassed? “Even the likelihood of you attacking me while you are  _not_ in your right mind is … below 50 percent.”

Jazz grinned. “Of course. You are my partner – I don’t attack my partners.” And he would have loved to add something about how he would attack a partner as beautiful and desirable as Prowl even less, but he’d learned early on that Prowl _really_ didn’t like for Jazz to flirt with him when he was about to be bitten.

Well. He could always bring it up later again, if – when – he managed to convince Prowl that they should be  _courting_ . After all, being bitten during ‘facing did it for a lot of his lovers/ donors .

Encircling the offered wrist he allowed himself a minute to just  _feel_ the flow of energon under the plating, the sheer  _life_ running through the frame. The  _mech_ .

With his pump working, it was hard to explain to normal mechs what difference being a vampire made. After all he was still moving, wasn’t he? He still had a working processor, could learn and think. Had a  _spark_ .

And yet that was where the difference truly lay: his spark, bright and blue. 

And utterly still.

He hadn’t felt his spark spinning in more vorns than he wanted to think of, and while he usually ignored what doctors had to say about his condition there was one thing about the workings of a mech’s frame he did know: It was the spark, the  _spark’s spinning_ , that saturated the energon in their lines with the power to move their pump, and with their pump their frame. 

And without a living spark a vampire needed to get this energy from somewhere, some _one_ , else.

“Are you going to get on with it? I need more sleep than you.”

Sighing at Prowl’s impatience Jazz let himself be pushed out of his musings, his hand tightening a little around the warm wrist as he pulled it closer. In his mouth he felt his siphon twitch as if it could sense the coming energon, the tip already fanning out into its five parts.

Opening his mouth over an energon line he knew all too well he let it flip forward, sensors he hadn’t had as a living mech finding the line without trouble, then press the middle of its tip directly over it. There were little hooks at the ends of the fans and he felt them grip onto the metal frame; the scratches they left would be gone by morning.

Unlike the thorn sitting next to the opening. Even used to it as he was Prowl jerked away when it sank deep into the line, and it was only Jazz’ hold on him that kept him from tearing the little hole into an actual dangerous injury. Yet he  _was_ used to it and settled down quickly, his hand lying calmly, trustingly in Jazz’, allowing him to take what he needed.

With his orns as a living mech gone for so long Jazz didn’t remember whether he’d ever tasted energon before his change; he was sure that it had never tasted like  _this_ . Life flowing into his mouth, warm and bright and  _wild_ , flooding his senses until he was entirely focused on that river of life filling his mouth, his tanks, his  _being_ .

The demon’s energon had been more powerful, filled as it was with the strength of unholy magic. But  _this_ was Prowl’s energon, energon he desired above all else, and it brought him a satisfaction nothing else did.

He loved drinking from his one-night-stands, loved tasting their lust and desire. They came to him for a night of pleasure and he saw no reason not to indulge them, not when he loved ‘facing just as much.

Prowl was nothing like that. He wasn’t aroused, didn’t even like to be bitten – he did it because Jazz was his partner and they were far from his usual donors, far from any mech he could safely approach. Yet under the hard, stern taste of that determination was a sweet gentleness – Prowl liked him – and a spicier hint of denied desire – the one hint Jazz had that his own desire was reciprocated - and an acid tang of anger and sadness – old, old wounds Jazz would love to heal and never could – and a warmth that was Prowl’s approach to all beings, hidden under that unapproachable shell, warm and thick like gelled energon goodies.

With how good Prowl tasted Jazz had to be extra careful with him, making sure that he never took too much. So when his internal alert told him that he should stop he took a patch from his subspace, then quickly applied it to Prowl’s wrist, making sure that it stuck strong.

Suppressing the hunger for more he looked up, a smile forced upon his lips to hide how much he  _wanted_ this mech, wanted him fully, energon and frame and spark. “See, all good. Just a little love bite.”

Prowl’s optics flashed, irritation sparking across his field as he jerked his hand back, and for a moment Jazz honestly thought he’d gone too far and Prowl would pull his staff and clobber him with it. It wouldn’t kill him after all; not as long as Prowl didn’t actually want that

Yet Prowl was far too controlled for that. Taking a deep vent his optics turned cold as the weather outside. “Good night.”

Sighing Jazz rolled to his feet and tapped over to his own berth, alone with his misery directly under the window pane.

Behind him Prowl drained the cubes, then rolled himself into his blanket -  _“Don’t dare coming into my dreams again”_ \- and fell asleep, while Jazz lay curled in his own blanket, cold and lonely, and watched the ice bloom on the cold glass.


	13. Winter beach walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something short today. But then it is sweet enough to give me a sugar shock already so that's probably best ...  
>  ~~Or: guess who accidentally barely slept for two nights straight to read a barbarian AU.~~

"It was a dark and stormy night, the waves rolling high up the beach, their breaking loud enough to drown out the sound of the thunder ..."

Prowl looked out at the sea; the afternoon sun was reflecting brightly off the mirror-like surface and a flock of skuabots drifted in the gentle waves. Just that moment a couple of sparklings ran by, laughing and shrieking as they tried to catch each other.

He hazarded a guess. "Is that another of your songs?"

Jazz laughed, one arm sneaking around his waist and pulling him close. "Na, just trying to set the mood. See, two bots wandering the beach in winter - could be the beginning of a novel, ya know?"

Pulling his lover close Prowl looked down at him, his optics drawn to the sparkling visor, the wide grin, the sheer joy of him. It warmed his spark that this mech would love him, made his own lips curve and he leaned forward to press a kiss against Jazz' sensor horns.

Jazz pulled back, laughing, playfully shoving him. "Stop it!"

Searching through his database for everything he knew about novels Prowl took the hand Jazz still had on his chest and bowed over it, then pressed a kiss to his joints. Looking up again into Jazz' visor, lightened almost to azure in amused surprise, he said: "And if I want it to be a novel where I am the barbarian, kidnapping the beautiful prince to ravish him under the light of the stars? Take him back to my home and do all the wicked things to him that will make him squeal in delight and that his creators wish he never knew about?"

A tendril of heat flickered through Jazz' field, there and gone, and then he was just amusement again, teasing joy that took Prowl's hand and yanked him close, his other arm lying around his waist and trapping him there. "And what", he asked, his visor gleaming. "If it is the kind of story where the prince turns out to be not quite as virtuous and chaste as the barbarian thought and turns the table on him?"

Prowl smiled and stepped back, confident that Jazz would rather follow than let his captive go. "Is that so? Then" his thumb stroked over the back of his lover's hand, earning him a softening of his smile. "Then the barbarian will have to find a way to even then field again, won't he?"

Jazz laughed and quickly sidestepped as a wave rolled up, harmlessly washing over Prowl's pedes. "Is that what they call it these orns when they trick their hapless little prince into getting washed away by the cold cold ocean?"

The Rust Sea never cooled enough to be called cold, not so close to the undersea volcanoes. Putting his free hand against Jazz' cheek he allowed himself a moment to just enjoy his warmth, the smooth living plating against his own, the way his lover trustingly turned into it and pushed against his hold.

"No, it's not", he said, his other hand laying comfortably around Jazz' waist. Comfortably, and maybe just right to better hold him.

He smiled wider, stealing a quick kiss off his lover's lips before pulling back again. "It's what we call it when the hapless little prince gets _thrown_ into the cold cold water."

And with that he picked him up, his cables straining but holding, and tossed his protestingly squealing lover into the next wave.

It was a beautiful toss. With Jazz' frame so slender and small that he practically counted as a lightweight, especially against Prowl's reinforced enforcer frame, and said frame also being made to restrain even bigger criminals, his lover flew quite a few meters into the ocean. The resulting splash was enormous enough to swap back to Prowl, splattering water liberally all over his chest and legs, but it was it so worth to see the astonished, outraged expression on Jazz' face just before he submerged in the deeper water.

Prowl waited just long enough to ensure that Jazz came up again, wet and vent full of sand and sputtering like a cybercat, before he took off at a run back to their quarters.

After all, the sputtering sounded an awful lot like threats, which, with a lover who was trained as Jazz, always meant danger.

And he looked so forward to his lover enacting the _Little prince ties his barbarian to the berth and torments him with his sexiness_ punishment once they were out of sight of anyone else.


	14. Book, blanket and beverage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, looks like a coffeeshop-AU happened anyway ...
> 
> Sadly, thursdays don't get any less busy, so I'll probably not post tomorrow again, especially since it looks to be a longer chapter. See you Friday.

Jazz loved Wednesdays.

Sure, he loved his job – _his own cafe! How could he not love it?_ \- so the other days weren’t bad usually, either. He liked Mondays, bringing in people buying ShootingStar’s wake-up mix to get their processors started despite the hangover of whatever party they’d been on this weekend. Tuesdays usually were the days mechs started to talk in more than unintelligible grunts and vague gestures that might or might not be prayers for Primus to smite them where they stood to get rid of their processor ache. Wednesdays and Thursdays was when they were behaving ‘normal’ - some mechs couldn't stop talking, some stayed lost in their own thoughts, and most of them fell somewhere between, with the occasional bot needing more attention because of exam stress or getting recently dumped thrown in. Friday was when the mechs woke up, the nearing weekend waking their processors fully, and Jazz learned a lot about what one could do during the weekend in Iacon. And Saturday and Sunday … well, that were the days when was felt like every mech in Iacon came by for a date or just to meet up with friends in - if Jazz was allowed to say so - the best café in all of Iacon.

So, for a social mech like Jazz every day of a week was good. He wouldn’t have let Ironhide talk him into opening his own cafe after retiring from SpecOps otherwise.

But Wednesdays? Wednesdays were _special_.

"He's here." Bee walked past him with a new bag of sodium while he was just wiping the counter down, grinning and nodding towards the front door.

He didn’t even need to say more; something started to prickle in Jazz' stomach and he felt himself smile without thinking about it.

Looking over he just saw the door opening to admit their newest customer.

Just a little taller than Jazz, with the robust frame of a Praxian enforcer (and matching paint job that had no business looking as good on him as it did), doorwings that Jazz itched to run his hands over and a mind that left him in awe every time he got a taste of it he was absolutely stunning. And also absolutely the mech Jazz had always dreamed of settling down with.

And just like every Wednesday he was looking up as soon as he came in, searching for Jazz and, as soon as he found him, smiling that soft happy smile that made Jazz’ struts melt.

Just like yet.

Somehow he made it over to the counter on knee joints that seemed to have forgotten how to properly lock, bypassing Bluestreak who’d unpromptedly given up his spot where mechs placed their order with a wide grin and a thumbs-up that was thankfully hidden from the rest of the cafe.

And then he stood in front of him, with just the counter separating them.

“Hello Prowl”, he managed, breathless. “Same as always?”

Prowl nodded, his smile turning a little teasing. “Surprise me.”

Even his voice was beautiful, all smooth and deep, and Jazz had to suppress a shiver before he could answer. Probably sounded a little hoarse anyway. “One surprise mix, coming right up.”

The first time Prowl had turned up in ShootingStar had been half a stellar cycle ago, when his usual cafe had closed. Jazz’ energon mixes being as good as they were it hadn’t taken more than two of his specials for Prowl to chose them as his new regular hangout spot. Since then he’d come in faithfully every Wednesday to the point that Jazz would probably call the enforcers to report him missing if he didn’t one day.

And when he came in he always, _always_ asked for Jazz to make his mix.

And he always asked for Jazz to surprise him.

And then he always watched Jazz make his drink, dancing between the machines to heat or cool the different types of energon, putting some additives in this container and powdering others in another. Carefully whipping it up so it wouldn’t explode, then filling all the different flavors together, sometimes swirled, other times layered, or simply mixing them up until he had a cube full of the best energon Jazz could procure mixed to standards even the Prime wouldn’t think to complain about.

It was a routine that helped him relax a little, even with Prowl’s optics on him, and so he was actually capable of looking into Prowl’s optics when he was finished; the Praxian stepping up and taking the cube right out of his hand.

Jazz felt lightning racing through his lines when their plating touched.

Maybe Prowl felt it, too, because his fingers seemed to linger a little more than usual before he pulled them back, then held the cube close as if it was precious.

_Precious_ because Jazz had made it?

“Thank you.” Prowl never broke optic-contact with him when he took a first swig, visibly swirling the energon around in his mouth, savoring the taste with dimmed optics and a soft moan that went right through Jazz’ audio and into his spark, sending it spinning.

He wanted to hear Prowl moan like this more often. He wanted to _make_ Prowl moan like this more often, and not only with energon.

Brightening his optics again Prowl smiled, appreciatively. “Wonderful, as always”, he said and the praise made Jazz melt just that little bit more.

“Can’t disappoint my favorite customer”, he said, trying for careless and only reaching not- _entirely_ -besotted.

And still Prowl didn’t seem to notice, only nodding and tilting his helm in the direction of his usual spot near the glass panes that made up the entire front of the cafe. “Will you join me later?”

Because Prowl always, always came during late morning and stayed for several jours into early afternoon. And he always invited Jazz to spend his lunch break with him.

Jazz had yet to say no to him. “I’m looking forward to.”

Prowl nodded, opened his mouth -

The door opened, admitting a couple new customers.

\- and closed it. Then opened it again, his smile a little sad. “I’ll see you then”, he said, and Jazz could only nod himself, too.

Nod, and watch as Prowl made his way over to his table – and it _was_ _his_ table on Wednesdays, Jazz made sure of that – and put the cube down on it. Then he pulled the blanket from the seat – it was _cold_ so close to the glass in winter, even indoors – and wrapped himself into it before unsubspacing a datapad, ready to spend the next few jours reading and drinking.

He looked comfy there, warm and reliable, lost in whatever he was reading this day. Every now and then he would look up, his optics searching for and finding Jazz in the cafe and smiling when he did, even if Jazz didn’t look back. 

Just as Jazz did the other way around.

So yeah, Wednesdays were the best days.

Because they had Prowl.


	15. Blue Mondays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampire!Jazz' and Prowl's first meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any typos and other mistakes - most of this is posted as written, mainly because I never realized it would turn as long as _this_  
>  ~~frag my life~~
> 
> Warnings: ~~human~~ mech sacrifice, slavery, child labor, on- and offscreen death, sex with someone they would prefer not (mentioned)  
> none of the main characters doing anything of that to each other

_Many vorns in the past …_

Prowl gritted his dentae and mopped faster, trying to get the spilled energon mix off the floor before Master Shockwave remembered it. Hopefully, even before he remembered Smokescreen’s and his existence – it was never good if a dark magician knew that you existed, his creator had always said, and he’d been right.

Not that that had helped him when Master Shockwave had come and demanded he pay tax. And neither had fighting him – it had only ensured that the magician had taken both his creations as tax. At least Smokescreen had been too small to remember the sight of his creators lying on the ground, dying in the midst of their own energon.

It had taught Prowl one more thing: if the magician already knew of you existence it was better to stay silent and do as he demanded – at least until you were old and big enough, and _prepared_ , to take them out before they could fight back.

Moving so he could feel the sharp little knife he had stolen from Master Shockwave’s laboratory against his plating – servants weren’t allowed subspace pockets but it was interesting how well one could hide things withing one’s own frame if one didn’t mind getting creative – he took a moment to look up at the head of the table where Master Shockwave was still being entertained by his pet vampire.

If he wasn’t so resentful of the creature’s behavior Prowl might actually be grateful towards him – if he hadn’t distracted the magician just that moment Smokescreen might have gotten a beating, or even worse, for spilling the morning mix. Thankfully  _after_ serving the Master, and only a little bit, or the Master might just use him for his next spell.

As sacrifice.

Yet he couldn’t find it in himself to truly appreciate the vampire’s acting, and only partway because he was sure it hadn’t been for his and Smokescreen’s benefit.

The vampire –  _Jazz_ – had turned up at the castle door late in the evening a couple of decaorns ago and been immediately invited in. At first everyone had thought he would end up as a sacrifice – Master Shockwave wasn’t very choosy in who or what he used after all – but instead he had turned into his constant companion, always by his side, making comments about everything and – Prowl had to suppress a shiver –  _flirting_ with him.

It wasn’t that he was against flirting – he didn’t mind it with the cook and the gardener after all – but with  _Master Shockwave_ ? And as aggressively as Jazz did it? No way.

And he was all over him right now as well, smiling, laughing, his visor blinking while his fingers trailed over Master Shockwave’s chest seams.  _Almost sitting in Master Shockwave’s lap_ . 

No – there was no way Prowl would ever feel grateful to such a creature, not even when he hoped – in his wildest dreams – that he was here to worm his way into the Master’s good graces and trust, and then take him out after he’d managed to get under the spells magicians used to protect themselves.

Not that having a vampire master would be in any way better, but Prowl was quite confident that he would be able to take him out more easily. He was still an upgrade away from his adult frame – there was no way Jazz took him seriously.

At least not until he would push the knife through his undead spark.

Judging the floor to be as clean as it ever got Prowl took his cleaning rag and vanished back out of the Master’s sight.

  
  


***

  
  


A couple of orns later he returned to the kitchen after serving breakfast to Master Shockwave and his guest to pick Smokescreen up for their morning duties. Since the almost-disaster so shortly ago he had made sure that his brother wasn’t anywhere close to the Master, even if it meant that he had to stay longer to clean the dining room after Shockwave had left it.

Yet when he came into the kitchen the first thing he noticed was that no-one looked into his optics, everyone apparently absorbed into their various tasks.

The second was a glaring lack of overly excited sparkling.

His lines filled with ice.

“Where is Smokescreen?”, he asked, his voice hoarse.

Still no-one was looking at him, barely anyone moving as if afraid to gain his attention. Into the awkward silence the cook finally said, his optics on the pot he was stirring in: “The Master took him.”

For a moment Prowl couldn’t vent, the dread freezing him up.

Then came the anger, hot and bright and incandescent. While he had been clearing the table and mopping up the floor the Master had taken his brother. As a sacrifice, for there was no other reason he would ever call on someone as young as Smokescreen.

_And every single adult in this kitchen had stood there and watched as he took a sparkling not even into his third frame_ . 

A small voice in his processor tried to point out that there was nothing they could have done. Shockwave was a mighty magician, and they were just normal mechs. But the anger in him drowned it out.

Hoarse from rage, his whole frame trembling, he managed to spit out: “You disgust me.” before turning on his heels and making for the stairs down.

Behind him he thought he heard the cook call his name but he ignored it, instead reaching for his knife.

He had always waited for a better, safer moment to attack Shockwave. Now it seemed that the time had been decided for him.

Either he killed the magician, or he would die with his brother.

Shockwave’s laboratory – the most likely place for him to have taken Smokescreen – was down in the basement – which Prowl had always found unsafe: if any of his experiments ever exploded with enough force, or one of the demons he summoned got loose, it would bring the whole castle down with everyone caught within it; not that that interested  _their Master_ . Prowl had been called down there fairly often, most likely because of his youth and the fact that, without family outside the castle walls and Smokescreen too young to escape, he wasn’t likely to get bribed or talked into stealing from Shockwave.

It made it easy now to find his way – down that hallway, then that corner, and then the door which only opened to approved persons – like the nobody servant Shockwave rarely noticed and definitely didn’t want to have to acknowledge every time he needed something cleaned down there – and then the long, long stairwell. 

There was no light – the magician took his own light down with him, and there was no-one else supposed to be there now – but that didn’t matter. With his last upgrade his sonar had started working and he’d made a map of the whole castle long ago for this exact reason. As fast as he dared while still staying making as little noise as possible Prowl hastened down the stairs, then left when he reached the junction – Shockwave wouldn’t have taken Smokescre en to the cell block, not when he was as safely contained upstairs as he was – and then he had to slow down to make sure he wasn’t running into the wall where the hallway made a sharp bend.

For a moment he thought he heard something behind him but when he stopped, afraid that he’d set off an alert, nothing happened.

His spark spinning faster, vents forcefully overridden to keep them silent, he hurried on until he reached the bend and hear d the sound of some incantation and saw light flickering back into the hallway. 

It was the crackling blue of living lightning. Blue like the ring of a magician summoning another foul creature.

Blue like the kind of sorcery he would need a sacrifice for, and the servants would have to dispose of another carcass of some unlucky mechanimal.

Only that it wouldn’t be a mechanimal this time, but Smokescreen.

Rage reared her helm in him again; his brother  _would not_ die here, in the filthy basement of some dark magician. Prowl hadn’t learned what he could of fighting, hadn’t endured the last two vorns, only to now lose him.

“I will get my brother back”, he swore soundlessly, his fingers clutching the knife.

It seemed far too small – just a dagger that he’d had to sharpen again because the point had broken off, barely longer than his forearm – against the magician, but this was all Prowl had.

_And he would make it work._

When he peeked around the corner Shockwave was lost in his spell so Prowl quickly took stock of what was going on in the room.

It was large – larger even than the dining room – though the shelves pushed against the walls and filled with countless  _things_ made it seem smaller, oppressive. To his left was a door leading into another library that Prowl wasn’t allowed to step into, and in the back was another door that was always locked with all three sliding bolts and sometimes juddered ominously. 

Near the entrance was the large spell circle, etched into the floor and surrounded with a knee-high wall of blue flames.

In the middle of it lay Smokescreen, obviously tied down, and also still fighting. If not for the gag in his mouth Prowl was sure he would be screaming, too – his brother might have learned to be silent, but it didn’t really come natural to him.

Shockwave stood to the right of the circle, his optics offlined – he didn’t need to fear an intruder, not with the spells at his door and his servants cowed; Prowl was pretty sure he didn’t even recall that Smokescreen had a brother, and even less that said brother was one of the few that were free to pass. 

For a moment he was frozen – he hadn’t thought what to do if Shockwave had already started. And he couldn’t just kill him – too fresh was the memory of the remnants of a backslash he’d once had to clean up, and that had only been a minor spell. This here looked, at least to his untrained optics, much more powerful.

It wouldn’t do for him to kill Shockwave, only for him and Smokescreen to then die in the blue flames.

But no matter how frozen he felt, his second processor was still working, and it came up with a workable plan. Slowly his optics wandered into the back part of the laboratory – the part that  _truly was_ a laboratory.

Including the safety gear needed for anyone handling unsafe magical potions.

Expelling the heated air from his vents, then sucking in a cool breath for the last time, he carefully made his way to the back – along the wall behind Shockwave and praying all the time to a god he didn’t truly believe in that the magician wouldn’t chose that exact moment to stop with his spell.

When he reached the tables hie whole frame was trembling with nerves and heat and he vented as silently as possible, though it still sounded terribly loud to him, as he searched for the equipment that he knew had to be here.

He found it on the second table – a barely palm-sized lump of some kind of fluorescent ore, pulsing faintly in the darkness. Taking just enough time to make sure that nothing would fall from the mess of ingredients on the table he grabbed it, then turned back towards the middle of the room.

Nothing had changed there and he vented a sigh of relief; apparently the spell was one of the longer ones.

Though … was he imagining that the fire wall was now a little higher? Maybe a little lighter, too?

Prowl shook the thoughts from his processor – he didn’t have time to deal with that yet. No matter what happened with the spell, he had no better plan available anyway.

So instead he made his way silently back towards the entrance – only this time, he stopped behind Shockwave.

He grabbed his knife in a faintly trembling hand, optics directed onto the magician.

The still  _unsuspecting_ magician.

And then he threw all caution in the wind and took the three steps forward as fast as he could, practically running up to Shockwave, and hammered the knife directly into his neck.

There was a  _KRACK!_ And suddenly Prowl was slammed backwards against the wall, all his pain sensors lighting up, and his optics went dark.

It could only have taken him a bare moment to online again but when he did Shockwave was already there, grabbing him by the neck and pulling him up.

His already ugly face was distorted even more with rage.

“YOU DARE?!”, he screamed, lubricant flecking off his mouth and landing on Prowl. His optics seemed to glow in some unholy light.

He should probably be afraid, Prowl thought. And he was – oh, he was  _terrified_ – but he was still alive – had the lump protected him? - and behind Shockwave he could still see Smokescreen, still moving.

He would  _not give up_ . Even if his plan had failed, even if he died now – he would never stop fighting.

For the first time he understood how his creator had felt as he’d fought the magician back then – there was little to no hope, his second processor calculating the odds of his escape at under 1 percent, and of him managing the rescue his brother now even lower – but he  _would never stop_ .

Baring his dentae against the pain he grabbed for Shockwave’s arm with both hands – and then, instead of trying to pry his hand of his neck as Shockwave had obviously expected, he used the hold to kick at his chest.

It did – very little. For a moment the magician swayed, but then he stood again, a mocking expression coming to his face.

“Do you think you can harm _me_ , the greatest magician of all of Cybertron? I will teach you to attack me!” And with that he raised his other hand –

\- and suddenly the tip of a long knife protruded from his chest.

Prowl and Shockwave both stared down at it, then the blade was pulled back out and the magician’s grip loosened, he staggered while Prowl freed himself, trying to turn around and see who had – attacked him?

“You -!”, he gasped, falling to the ground.

“Me”, Jazz said, calm as if he hadn’t just killed a dark magician. As if he wasn’t still holding a blade the size of his arm. “Should really check your _friends_ better. Oh, no, I forgot – you won’t do that anymore.” And then he licked the energon off the blade.

Prowl swallowed, still dazed, but that was where his second processor came in handy – no matter how frozen he was it never stopped working. Though what it came up with wasn’t that useful, either. “You killed him.”

He might have hoped the vampire would kill Shockwave – but that didn’t mean he would have ever expected it to  _really happen_ .

The vampire only shrugged. “I would have killed him that first orn, but with how many fragging protective spells he has around him …” Then his expression changed, something like worry coming to it, and he whirled around.

Where Smokescreen was still surrounded by a ring of – now dying – flames.

Immediately forgetting about the vampire Prowl pushed himself to his feet and raced to his brother’s side, jumping over the fire without even realizing it.

His brother stared up at him, squirming and fighting to get free  _but unharmed_ , and Prowl wanted to curse himself for forgetting the knife somewhere out there with the empty frame of the magician – but then the vampire was there and even as Prowl flinched away from how close he was, and how his proximity made his whole frame  _crawl_ with prey reflex, he reached for the cables holding Smokescreen down and cut through them with his claws.

Smokescreen was immediately off the ground and in Prowl’s lap, crying, shaking, and even with a creature as evil as the vampire there Prowl simply couldn’t spare anymore thoughts on him – and, as his second processor helpfully pointed out, Jazz had  _helped_ him get Smokescreen free –, only focusing on calming his brother down.

When Smokescreen was finally calmer, the lack of energy due to his panic and fighting forcing him into a half-doze, he looked for the vampire a gain.

Jazz had left them and started to explore the room, currently leafing through some of the papers on Shockwave’s desk – Shockwave’s  _former_ desk, Prowl remembered and couldn’t help the shiver of glee when he glanced at the corpse of the magician.

“What do you want with us?”, he asked. “Why did you help us?” He should probably not sound that confrontational – but then he was tired, and s till angry, and honestly? He didn’t have the energy to care.

Not that Jazz seemed to mind. Looking up from the paper his expression changed again, somethin g like caring m aking it gentle. 

“Nothing”, he said. “I want nothing with you. And I helped you because I wanted to.” He hesitated, then put the paper down and fully turned towards them. There was a hint of shame on his face, there and gone so fast Prowl wasn’t sure it had truly been there. “I regret that I didn’t find a way to kill the slagger before he endangered your brother. Endangered him _more_.”

“You are a vampire”, Prowl accused him. “Vampires don’t help people out of the good of their heart!”

Jazz snorted. “Yeah, no kidding. Pretty sure its a virus – selflessness isn’t exactly what I’m used to, either.” A sigh. “Though I guess I would have helped you anyway – can’t let an afthead like that kill some kids as cute as you two.”

“So you came into the castle to kill Shockwave.” Prowl was more than skeptical – from what he’d seen the vampire had enjoyed his stay here – and in Shockwave’s berth. Until, well, he’d killed him.

“No reason to sound so sarcastic, killing evil people is actually my job.” Finally he left the tables and came back to them, easily stepping over the lines of the circle now that the fire had fully extinguished.

“Jazz of Staniz”, he introduced himself, bowing a little. “Hunter of Evil Creatures, and part of the Monster Hunter Guild.”

Prowl stared. He  _had_ heard that there were monsters – vampires, witches, succubi – that had joined the guild. It was what his creator had talked about, just that morning before he’d gotten killed by a magician. So maybe Jazz said the truth and he’d truly only come here to help them.

“We can go now?”, he asked, only to be sure.

Jazz tilted his helm a little. “Well,  _normally yes_ , but both of you are minors so I guess we’ll have to wait for my partner so we can take you back to Iacon and someone can look after you.” He sighed. “Brightside is going to love that.”

Going back to Iacon didn’t sound so bad – the guild headquarters were there – and Prowl could maybe join them; he  _never_ wanted to feel as helpless again as he’d had under Shockwave – and he couldn’t really provide for Smokescreen and himself.

It also meant that Jazz had probably truly meant to rescue them.

He supposed he should feel grateful towards him – he had saved both his and Smokescreen’s life, and set them free.

It didn’t make him like him any more.

Maybe Jazz could read it in his face because he simply shrugged. “Take it up with Brightside”, he said, then looked back towards the entrance. “We should go back up. I have shit reception down here and Brightside is about to get the willies anyway.”

Prowl nodded, then scooped his brother into his arms. Jazz didn’t offer to help – not that he would have accepted anyway – so it was quite awkward, but at least Smokescreen was still small enough that he could carry him.

On the way back to the entrance Jazz kicked once against Shockwave’s corpse, spitting next to it. “You really had to do this today, didn’t you? Monday, of all things – bad things always happen on Mondays. And then your energon is foul, too.”

Looking back at Prowl he offered him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, didn’t really eat in a while. Wasn’t sure what the pitspawn would have offered me.”

Prowl only nodded, too focused on holding his brother safely to worry about that.

Slowly they made their way up the stairs, back into a new life.

A life in which he, hopefully, would never have to see Jazz again.

  
  


***

  
  


_Today …_

Ironhide glared at him over his desk. "Congratulations, Headlights asked for another partner." His optics narrowed. "That's your _fifth_ partner in two stellar cycles, not counting the seven that gave up after the trial mission."

Prowl was unmoved. "None of them are up to -"

"- the standards you hold them to? I know." The captain of the guild leaned forward, his hand splayed on the table as if to hold onto it to keep himself back. "If I didn't know that you hold yourself to the same standards and _meet_ them I would call them ridiculous. Or think you are intentionally sabotaging us."

"I try to keep them safe", Prowl said frosty. "Hardlight almost got himself eaten by a _naga_. He shouldn't be allowed into the field if he can't handle that."

Ironhide snorted. "It was a _whole nest_ of naga, and I know that you know that because that's what _your_ report said." He sighed, then seemed to sag back into his chair.

That actually worried Prowl more than if he had continued scolding him. Anger, he could handle. Defeat? He could only hope this didn't mean Ironhide would do what he'd threatened to do a couple times already and transfer him into an office.

Prowl didn't have his standards without reason: he was the guild's best hunter, and if he worked with someone less capable it only endangered both of them.

Hesitantly he asked: "Sir?"

Ironhide just sighed again, then picked a datapad off his overflowing desk and held it out to him. "Your new partner." An amused snort. "He _is_ meeting your standards."

And yet there was something he was holding back. Taking the pad, but not yet looking at it Prowl asked: "Is there a problem?"

"A problem?" An almost unholy glee came to the captain's optics. "That's one thing to call him, sure. Goes through partners almost at the same rate as you do."

Prowl narrowed his optics. "And you think we'll be compatible?" Or was that just an attempt to shove the troublemakers at each other, in the hope that they would appreciate a _normal_ partner more?

That gleam was still there and only seemed to get more worrisome. " _His_ partners usually quit because he scares them; I don't think that will be a problem with you." Unlikely - there wasn't much Prowl let himself get scared by. Especially not by a partner who for all his fearsomeness had apparently never done anything to his partners or he wouldn't still be part of the guild. "And he does meet your standards. _Exceeds_ them, even, I would guess."

And that sounded outright promising. "What is the catch?"

"I'm not sure you are going to survive each other's tempers", Ironhide said plainly. "I guess there's a 50:50 chance of you either becoming the best team of the guild, or end up murdering each other within the first decaorn. Probably very gruesomely."

Prowl stared at the other. Murdering his partner? What kind of mech would be able to drive him to such extremes?

And then he remembered the datapad in his hands and send the command to unlock it, looking down at the same time.

Looking down - right into the face of a mech - a vampire - he'd thought to never see again.

For a moment the floor seemed to sway under him, no matter what his gyroscope was telling him about it’s stability.

_"You paired me up with Jazz?"_


End file.
